


Celestial Bodies

by Justkeeptrekkin



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Can you tell i love PG Wodehouse?, Don’t copy to another site, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, I've done my best to make them worth reading because, M/M, Nonbinary Crowley (Good Omens), There are a lot of OCS in this, it's not easy to write this without OCs!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-07-30 07:44:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 48,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20093752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Justkeeptrekkin/pseuds/Justkeeptrekkin
Summary: The year is 1923. Aziraphale's friends at the gentlemen's club invite him for a weekend away in Devon. He asks Crowley to join. It gets very silly and very messy very quickly.That's just how things were in the roaring twenties.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone!
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this fic. This is somewhat inspired by Jeeves and Wooster, because I love that show/those books- but like, gayer. But essentially, this is just ineffable husbands getting up to silly things in the 20s- for the a e s t h e t i c. Imagine Great Gatsby, but like, not American. 
> 
> If you want to listen to the playlist that helped me a long with this, you can read [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/38uutHiJQAKrZr0pw1eyxP?si=sWj4nOFCS--aGhPESsmlrA)
> 
> I have created a few OCs for this, since it's set in a sort of silly social environment with daft escapades. I reckon Aziraphale would have had a lot of gentlemen friends at the club, and Crowley would have judged them SUPER hard. I understand OCs aren't everyone's cup of tea so hopefully this isn't too much hard work for people and you fall in love with them. If not, fair dues! 
> 
> I hope you like this!

Cigarette smoke drifts into Aziraphale’s view. The strings of a double bass hum deeply throughout the club. He gazes at the inch of whisky in his crystal tumbler and listens, only vaguely. 

“We go every year,” Dodders announces cheerily. “Devon is absolutely drop-dead _gorgeous_ in the Summer, Bingy. But last year, only Lottie came with me, and it was frightfully boring, so please please _please_ do join us this time.”

“That isn’t all that encouraging, old chap. If you want us to come with you, you’ll have to promise us fun and misbehaviour.”

“I can only promise that if we _all_ go- the more the merrier!”

Aziraphale is sat in a worn, green leather chair by an unlit fireplace, watching the amber liquid in his tumbler swirl about. His leg bounces idly where it’s crossed over the other. The Lansdowne gentleman’s club tends to be at its busiest this time of night; and full of its silliest men. Currently, two of them bend over a snooker table and knock all the balls into the holes out of order, ignoring the rules of the game entirely. Opposite Aziraphale, the notoriously daft Xenophon Smith is reclined in his own armchair, so far slouched he’s almost prone, chin pressed against his chest and eyes falling half-closed drunkenly. Sitting on the floor is Julian, who is staring at a row of cards, having started a game of solitaire and perhaps forgotten how to play. 

These are the people that Aziraphale has found himself whiling away the time with.

“Well, that doesn’t sound so bad. If there’s more than one of us, that is. So the girls are going, too?”

“Oh, wouldn’t you like to know, Bingy, you old dog!” 

“Bugger off, Dodders. Lottie’s your bird, and Tilly doesn’t like me.”

“Which Tilly?” Xenophon says, voice distorted since his neck has been squished like an accordion by the angle he’s sitting in. 

“Tilly Topping, obviously,” Bingy barks. “Tilly Copperthwait wouldn’t be seen dead with us in Devon, and neither would Tilly Sommerhead-Smithe.”

“Why do we know so many Tilly’s,” Xenophon moans. 

Julian, who’s sandy-blond head is still bent over a spread of cards, snorts in agreement. 

Aziraphale can barely keep track of this conversation, let alone which Tilly is which. 

“I think Tilly Copperthwait does like you, actually, Bingy.”

“No she doesn’t. She’s American- if she liked me, she’d have said so by now. Americans are direct like that.”

“Perhaps you’re right.” Dodders, the tallest of the lot and one of the more air-headed, whacks his snooker cue against the table like a horse whip and calls out, unnecessarily loudly, “What about you, Xeno? Be a good sport and come to Devon?”

“Only if Bingy’s going,” he mumbles, eyes closed. His perfectly slicked black hair falling out of place.

Aziraphale watches with increasing apprehension as Dodders moves to Julian. “Jules?”

“Only if Tilly Topping’s going.”

“Well, I’ll have to see if Sal’s going, if Sal’s going, she’ll probably go.”

Then, predictably, Aziraphale finds all eyes on him, staring at him through the haze of cigarette smoke. 

The angel purses his lips and considers his answer. His eyes scan the large lounge room, searching for help where there is none- looking about every art-deco designed corner for someone to dive in and save him from answering. He has come to this club for the past couple of years, now- he had originally found a vacancy at the Portland Club, but that had rather gone downhill in that the friendly card games had turned into hard-core gambling and the visiting musicians had begun to take more and more burlesque turns. And so, Aziraphale had tried to find a slightly more respectable club, and run into these idiots. 

Idiots who he is rather fond of, but idiots no less. They had all gone to Oxford and Cambridge, and yet somehow they have very little sense to share between them. 

Aziraphale thinks about this for a beat too long, and Dodders answers for him. “Come on, old chap!”

The angel sighs. “It does sound like a lovely offer, but- I’m just not sure if…”

Aziraphale has never made a very good liar. He’s not sure how to say ‘_I don’t want to go on holiday with you all for a long weekend because I think I may actually lose my last brain cell in the process. And more than that, I know that you will all try and set me up with someone, and I just cannot cope with that, considering the fact that I’m in love with my best friend, who is in fact a demon._’

Yes, it’s not really possible to say that to your very daft, human friends. 

In the end, he opts with a half truth. “It does sound lovely. But I know how these trips always pan out- last time I joined you in Bath, you tried to match-make me with that poor, unsuspecting woman.”

“Yes, that was silly, Dodders,” Bingy remarks dryly. He pots the white ball, and doesn’t seem to be upset with having essentially lost the game by doing so. He retrieves the white ball and gives it another go, paying no real attention. “You know that our Aziraphale is as camp as a row of tents. Gay as a balloon.”

“I wasn’t trying to _set you up!_” Dodders argues, cigarette bouncing in his mouth with the strength of this exclamation. “If she expected you to propose to her by the end of the weekend that isn’t my fault. I didn’t plant any kind of marital seed in her mind, that’s all you. Being charming as ever. She just got the wrong end of the old, proverbial stick.”

Aziraphale pouts, frowning at his tumbler. He doesn’t remember the last time in human history when people seemed to be so eager to get married. Every single weekend away with these men inevitably ends up with one of them getting engaged, and then breaking it off the next day, explaining quite happily that ‘she seemed alright when I met her on Saturday, but come Tuesday I thought she was a bit of a bore.’ It's frustrating and, quite frankly, tiring. 

But then, at least, in the grand scheme of things, these are fairly minor problems. It's nice, for once, to sit around worrying about what to wear to the next party, rather than consider the impending apocalypse. 

“What about if you brought a friend with you, Aziraphale?”

Julian is the one to say this, which surprises even Aziraphale. Julian tends to talk aloud very little- only when he’s ordering a drink or pointing out if someone’s fly is undone. 

“A friend?” Aziraphale asks blearily, suddenly feeling a lot drunker than he previously realised.

“Yes, good idea- I know we all drive you potty, Aziraphale,” Dodders says, “He or she may buffer the situation a little for you. And if you don’t want to hook up with anyone there, well, is there perhaps someone you could bring who you are interested in? Perhaps a certain mysterious…?”

All four men turn to look at each other and say in lascivious unison: “_Crowley._”

Aziraphale brightens at the idea. If he could bring a friend- any friend- just for some extra company. Someone familiar, someone- no, there’d be no way he’d agree to join him. He’d hate it. A weekend away in Devon with a lot of drunk toffs? No. 

And then, he registers their tone, and corrects himself, glaring at them. Words coming out slurred: “I beg your pardon? Why’d’you say it like _that_?”

“Oh, come off it. That best friend of yours?” Dodders starts.

“That you went to Eton with?” Bingy adds.

“That you never stop talking about?” Xeno supplements.

And Julian concludes, “Who you’re clearly in love with?”

“That’s quite enough,” Aziraphale demands, a little flustered. Hot in the face with the combination of embarrassment and whisky. 

“That’s it sorted, then,” Dodders announces, putting out his cigarette and hopping onto the snooker table. He sits on the edge and dangles his legs happily like a child. “We’re all going to Devon this weekend. Lottie will obviously be coming, and if she can persuade Topping and thus, by proxy, persuade Sal, then that leaves us with- me, Bingy, Xeno, Julian, Lottie, Tilly, Sal, Aziraphale, and-”

“Crowley,” they all say in unison again. 

It’s really rather alarming when they do that. They say his name like some demonic chant- like a piece of Latin vocabulary that they’ve had drilled into them. 

“Stop it!” Aziraphale cries. “I can’t talk about him that much, surely?”

Bingy rounds on him with a sardonic smile, cherubic, strawberry blond curls bouncing in the movement. “‘_Oh, Bingy, there was this one time when me and Crowley went to see Macbeth, and-_”

“_And another time when we went to the Roman baths together-_”

“-_and we had simply the most divine Turkish delight in-_”

They all clamour over each other as they compete, apparently, to see who can remember the most Crowley related stories. Aziraphale sinks into his seat and covers his face with his hand. 

“I can’t cope, please, stop.”

“Do leave him be, poor Aziraphale doesn’t deserve to be bullied,” Xeno says, sounding like the sweet but dim child on the playground that he still is. 

“Sorry old chap.”

“_Multa apologia_.”

“Nothing to be ashamed of.”

And then, it seems that Dodders’s attention has been, thankfully, diverted by the waiter, who’s come in with a tray and a fresh container of whisky. Julian absent mindedly shuffles the cards, a little glumly and introspectively, as if he’s reading his tarot fate rather than failing at solitaire. Xenophon has fallen asleep.

Aziraphale registers a presence at the arm of his chair, and he peers through his fingers, finding Bingy’s face. 

“Cheer up, old boy,” Bingy says quietly. “None of us’ll resent you for not joining if you don’t want to. You know how Dodders gets when he’s in his rallying-the-troops mood.”

Aziraphale sits up in his seat, the leather creaking. He is incredibly light-headed, and the smoke isn’t helping. Bingy smacks him familiarly on the shoulder. It’s about as close to physical intimacy as Aziraphale has ever seen Bingy get. 

He peers back up at him. Bingy shares a rare smile. “Don’t let Cupid get you down, friend.”

***

Perhaps some of this bears explanation. 

There’s ‘Dodders’, real name Humphrey Doddering-Heights. He is loud and bouncy and light of foot, almost always skipping from place to place. He’s six foot five. His parents had bought him a very nice cashmere jumper when he was fifteen, thinking he’d had his growth spurt, and then could no longer wear it three months later having shot up another few feet. They haven’t forgiven him since. He comes from a hideously wealthy family who own a large estate in Devon- every summer they leave to visit family in the neighbouring counties. It is only when they are absent that Dodders feels brave enough to return home. 

Then there is Dodders’ old Eton friend, Bingy- aka Alistair ‘Bing’ Bingham. A man who looks sweet and gentle and puppy-dog like, he gives off an air that is more stern and reserved. He is, in fact, just as sweet and gentle and puppy-dog like as he initially appears, beyond the layer of stoicism. He has put up with Dodders for years, acting almost as a right hand man to his tomfoolery- an adviser to his king. If he gets up to as much silliness as Dodders, he says it’s only because he’d been trying to keep him out of trouble in the first place. Bingy is by far the most sensible of them all, and not just because he’s actually _had_ a job, unlike the rest of them. 

Xenophon Smith is daft. Not in the same bouncing way as Dodders, but rather in a sweet, quietly smiling way. He drifts through life like a bubble. His parents hope that he’ll put his Classics degree to good use and become a lawyer. This is very unlikely. Unfortunately for them, all of his attention is focused on Bingy. Xeno is very much in love with Bingy and they all know it, except for Bingy himself. His hair is a natural jet black, and he takes a lot of care with how he styles it, somehow hoping that Bingy might notice. 

And then there’s Julian Knackerton, sometimes known as Jules or Knick-Knack. Jules is practically mute, and yet manages to be the funniest member of any dinner party. With the very occasional one liner or relatable facial expression, he can make any man his friend. Jules is not interested in romance or anything of the like, and all of his friends respect him for this and have known this about him without ever having asked. He enjoys the company of Tilly Topping because she is a raging lesbian who doesn’t let anyone boss her around. There is something very inspiring about the Tilly Toppings of this world. 

Tilly Topping, largely known as ‘Toppster’ because they all know too many Tilly’s, is from Birmingham. She describes herself as ‘common as muck’ and is very proud of it. The boys love her to bits, and will defend her like a pack of wolves. She could ask them to follow her about like she is a queen and they her guards, but she wouldn’t need to- they’d do it anyway. Tilly is almost like the younger sister of the group, and whilst she likes to spend time with them, she finds weekends away with them dreary because she’d much rather be back in London or Birmingham not having to take part in all this match-making nonsense. 

She would absolutely go anywhere if it meant that Sal was going, too- Sal Giacometti, an American-Italian wannabe actress who is currently living in London for reasons that remain a mystery. She is in love with Sal, and Sal knows but, but isn’t quite ready to admit this to herself yet. Sal is refined and elegant and likes to wear long scarves so she can float about ethereally. People tend to follow in her wake, entranced, and she allows it. 

And at last, there’s Lottie Swaddle-Swidworth, Dodders’ girlfriend, who is alarmingly similar in character to Dodders- all except for the fact that she has an obsession with horses. She’s sweet and bubbly and air-headed, and awfully nice. They all like her of course. But they also find the couple to be strange and too perfectly matched. When she was twelve, she won a prize at her boarding school for ‘most caring girl in the school’, and she has taken that attitude with her into adulthood. She doesn’t need any other certification.

So that makes the Devon trip, by Aziraphale’s count:  
Aziraphale (RSVP status: maybe)  
Crowley (RSVP status: unlikely)  
Dodders  
Lottie  
Bingy  
Xenophon  
Jules/Knick-Knack  
Tilly/Toppster  
Sal

And if, in the years of knowing them, none of them have questioned Aziraphale’s unorthodox name (Aziraphale Fell) he supposes it’s because they all have equally unusual names. This is one of the benefits of being friends with posh people.

***

As the night progresses, the five of them meander over to a nearby bar, somewhere deeper in Mayfair. Dodders, as the unannounced but understood team leader, has heard that it has some jolly good music and they should therefore give it a whirl. This usually means that there’s some raunchy jazz involved, which Aziraphale admits is very enjoyable, even if it doesn’t have the same innocent fun as the gavotte. 

Aziraphale misses when mens’ clubs had the gavotte. 

Said bar is called The Parlour, although it isn’t a parlour at all. It’s actually a speakeasy, held underground down some stairs to one of those lovely big, white townhouses. There isn’t a sign on the facade, and Aziraphale can only assume that Dodders knows that this is the right place because he’d heard from a friend of a friend of a friend, and he daren’t ask who those friends might be. There isn’t an alcohol prohibition here, like there is in America, so there isn’t really any need for speakeasies in London- but it seems to be the fun of pretending to creep around and do something sinful that’s brought them into being in the UK. Aziraphale pretends to himself that he doesn’t condone it, as he steps into the bar. 

He had expected something rather dingy and debauched. Instead, everyone is just as dapper as they are. The space is much smaller than the Lansdowne, and they’re all a bit more tightly squeezed; it makes everything much louder. The lights of the red wall sconces are distorted by cigarette smoke. 

“Oh, _fab_!” Xenophon says with a dopey smile, smacking Dodders on the arm. “Good find, Dodders old boy!”

“Well, we ought to find a table, I suppose,” Bingy says mildly. 

Aziraphale smooths out the lapel of his white suit, straightens his blue tie. Follows Bingy and Jules to a table, whilst Dodders and Xeno go to the bar and order some spritzes. The bar is busy with people making their last orders before the music, and the shiny, oak counter is covered in spilled martini. The free table they find has only four seats, a lantern in the middle and two abandoned glasses with a side of olives. A waitress quickly tidies it away. 

“Thank you so much,” Aziraphale tells the waitress sincerely. Then, “This is quite the find. I confess, I don’t know many places to drink in London, only dine.”

“You can go to The Ritz every Friday, if you want,” Bingy says, removing a silver cigarette case from his inside pocket and popping it open. He pokes one in his mouth and says out of the other corner, “but it could get frightfully boring, with how much we all drink.”

“This is true.”

“You have to tell me all about this new Ivy place,” Bingy continues. “You did say it was very good, didn’t you?”

“Oh, yes. The Ivy does a really wonderful afternoon tea.”

“Over in Covent Garden?”

“That it is. Glorious cocktails, too.”

“I see. Perhaps we should all investigate sometime. Did you go alone?”

“No, I went with-”

“Crowley,” Bingy and Jules say in unison.

Aziraphale tuts and rolls his eyes, sitting up straight in his seat. 

“Are you going to join us in Devon, then? Bring your friend along?” Bingy continues, ignoring the way Aziraphale sighs and shakes his head disapprovingly. 

“I don’t think so, old chap.”

“Oh, no? It’s reasonable, I suppose. It does get frightful when there’s all that match-making. Dodders says that Tilly Copperthwait is sweet on me, but I couldn’t possibly imagine such a thing. Why on Earth would she look at a daft bugger like me?”

“Oh, don’t say that,” Aziraphale says with a comforting smile. 

“No, it’s true. And I refuse to like her, either, so there’s that on that.”

Bingy blows a plume of smoke out of his mouth and crosses a leg over the other, looking the other way. Aziraphale is suddenly overwhelmed with both sympathy and empathy. Empathy, because he knows what it’s like to have people badger you about someone liking you and you liking them back. Sympathy, because Aziraphale thinks that Bingy actually _might_ like someone else, and all the forced coupling-up is just making that harder. And knowing that Xenophon is also deeply in love with Bingy without him realising just makes this all the messier. 

As a celestial being of love, Aziraphale hates to admit it, but- sometimes, love isn’t very nice at all. 

Jules turns his head to the stage, and nods to it silently. 

Aziraphale and Bingy follow his line of sight. 

And Aziraphale has to wince through the smoke to see, but it’s unmistakable. 

There’s a black grand piano, and a band taking its place. Each man sets up his instrument, the double bassist tuning the strings and the pianist flicking out the tail of his coat before sitting. The drummer doing a little party trick, throwing the sticks into the air and dropping them fantastically, making the trumpeters wave dismissive hands at him and laugh. None of this is particularly remarkable- no, what’s remarkable is the singer. 

She comes on last. The first thing Aziraphale notices- the first thing he thinks anyone notices- is her _legs_. Legs for absolute days and high heels. She’s sporting one of those ‘flapper’ dresses that’s well above the knee and all black tassels. The wolf whistles are immediate, to which she doesn’t respond- she only walks on with a slow, hip swinging saunter that doesn’t look anatomically possible. 

He recognises her face. He recognises the slightly hooked nose and perpetually pouting bottom lip. Today, those lips are painted red. Red hair curled, shining, styled carefully into a marseille wave- black headband holding it in place. Little circular, black sunglasses cover her eyes, and around the sharp accent of her collar-bone is a feather boa, that she drapes over her arms like a snake. Her chin is tilted upwards, imperiously, and a wicked grin spreads across her face as she takes the stage.

The audience’s response is astronomical; there’s whooping and clapping and cheering and whistling galore. 

With a dismissive shrug, she removes the boa from her shoulders and leaves it on the floor of the stage. And then, with the help of the pianist, who scrabbles to his feet eagerly, she hops up onto the grand piano and lies along it, like a dying damsel. One leg hanging off, one knee raised, so her dress slips _just a little_, almost enough to see her garter.

It’s only then, as Aziraphale watches her stretch her arms over her head luxuriously, that he says in quiet disbelief:

“Crowley?”

Bingy turns to frown at him, blowing another puff of smoke. “Crowley?”

Aziraphale’s eyes widen in panic- he feels his face contorting in distress, can’t temper the way he reacts to Bingy’s simple question. “Yes. Well. That is-”

“Your Crowley has a sister then, eh?”

Bingy watches the stage, and Jules watches Aziraphale with narrowed eyes. Aziraphale clears his throat, straightens his bow tie again. “Yes! Yes, that’s right. He has a twin sister.”

“Must be confusing, if you refer to them both as Crowley. Don’t they have names?”

“Of course they do,” Aziraphale laughs nervously. 

Bingy waits for him to expand, and he doesn’t. He just smiles awkwardly and stares at the stage.

Stares at Crowley talking to the pianist in his ear, lying on her stomach, now. 

Aziraphale swallows. He does his best to ignore the strange, pleasant, but equally unpleasant heat that stings his skin. 

He’s roughly pulled out of his reverie when a glass is slammed directly in front of him, and he almost jumps out of said skin. Dodders pats him affectionately on the back, and Aziraphale smiles, though he doesn’t know why- probably because as silly as these boys are, they are very good at heart, and fun to be around at that. 

“_Who_ is _that_?” Dodders barks. 

“Crowley’s sister,” Jules says almost too quietly.

Dodders and Xeno gape at him. The too most pea-brained members of the group gawp at him speechlessly. They turn that gawp towards Aziraphale, who has nothing to say. He simply spreads out his hands, gesticulates wordlessly and uncomfortably. 

“Yes,” he confirms eventually. “Crowley’s sister.”

The two of them redirect the gawp to the stage, where Crowley is now sitting on the edge of the piano, accepting a microphone. 

Then, Dodders says, with his usual insight: “_Woof!_ She is _gorgeous!_”

Aziraphale is too drunk to cope with this right now- he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Really, must you?”

“Don’t be vulgar, Dodders,” Bingy mutters, lips on the edge of a martini glass. “How would you like it if one of your friends was leering at your sister. No doubt Aziraphale has known the girl for as long as he’s known Crowley. You and her must practically be family, with the way you describe how close you are with him.”

Aziraphale opens his mouth dumbly. Shuts his eyes and tries to formulate a response. This could get extraordinarily complicated. He can't lie even when he's sober. “Er-” 

“Sorry old boy, won’t be rude again. Only,” Dodders gazes at the stage. “She’s quite stunning, isn’t she? Has an air about her.”

Aziraphale takes a drink of his negroni. Winces as it goes down. “She does indeed.”

“Is that our Aziraphale drinking a negroni of all things?”

“Yes- haven’t you notice he drinks them sometimes?”

“I’d’ve pegged him as a martini man. Or a gin and tonic-”

“Oh no, he’s sweet on the exterior, but he likes his drinks dirty, don’t you old chap?”

Aziraphale isn’t listening to this thinly veiled euphemism. He’s entirely captivated by Crowley, who’s removed herself from the piano and is now making her way to the microphone stand in the middle of the stage. And then the drums start up, a fast-paced solo intro, followed by a glissando on the piano. It sets the whole room wild. 

“Oh, here she goes,” Dodders announces. 

She rolls her shoulders, as if flexing, tilts her head back. And then she sings:

“_When the town fool is a liar_  
And he's preaching to the choir  
You've got a lot of explaining that you do  
You see, no one likes a quitter, it makes us oh, so bitter  
So drop your hat and sit for awhile-”

Aziraphale sits in his seat very still, feeling a lot like he must be going mad. Because he still sees Crowley- only now and then, maybe every decade or so in clusters, but he’d still seen him _recently_. They’d only gone to The Ivy the week before last, and he hadn’t mentioned anything about having a jazz singer alter ego. Over the centuries Aziraphale has seen Crowley take on many personas, lived the life of many people. 

“_Ya see, every now and again we struggle with our past_  
We try to stare it in the eye and pray that  
It won't last- most questions that get answered,  
They never make much sense  
But I decided that I care,  
And I'll get right down to it And I said-”

There’s something about this particular persona, though. Something about this Crowley that Aziraphale finds quite remarkable. It’s possible it’s the confidence, a confidence that Aziraphale doesn’t often see in Crowley; the way she’s smirking as she sings, a bright toothy smile; fringed dress swinging as she shimmies; seemingly living off the calls of the crowd, sharing in the camaraderie of the other band members. Stage light glinting off her glasses.

_“Well, I like it when you sit,_  
And get straight down to it  
It suits you more than anyone will admit 'cause  
There's something in the air and no one seems to care  
Nobody will stand up, not even on a dare-  
It's funny how we fool them with tears behind our smile  
So tried and true, we plow right through and hope it's worth the while-” 

Yes, Aziraphale thinks it may be the confidence, may be how relaxed Crowley seems on stage. Which is quite something, given all those millennia of labouring over the fall, labouring over where the demon Crowley belongs in this universe. It’s not easy to feel comfortable in one’s own skin, to have an understanding of one’s self and live life regardless of what others might judge. And Aziraphale feels as if he is witnessing Crowley exploring a part of that self. Exploring it without reservation or fear or shame. Relaxing into it. It’s something very beautiful to see. Glorious. 

The ice in his drink has melted as he holds the glass too tightly. 

A few other flapper girls join and dance with her during the instrumental. And she’s lifted onto the shoulders of a couple of handsome, suited men and paraded around the stage like a queen. She only grins that big smile, brows raised and arms extended.

Crowley has always lived for the drama, Aziraphale thinks. And he finds himself smiling too. 

It’s not as if Aziraphale doesn’t see Crowley relaxed and happy- whether they’re having crepes in France during the revolution or exploring Rome together, back when Augustus was in charge of things. No, it’s more that Aziraphale has very, very rarely seen Crowley like _this_\- not on the job, not there to see Aziraphale. Simply existing and enjoying life without another agenda, and it lifts his heart. Fills it with even more love than he thought was possible; he didn’t think he had any room for more.

And when the song ends, the crowd bursts into applause, and Crowley bows half-jokingly, poses by the piano with the feather boa. That huge smile again.

There’s quite an awesome mixture of emotions that Aziraphale’s experience right now; something in between shock and affection and love and confusion and pride and impressed and then another dose of love all over again.

“Gosh,” Xeno remarks.

“Quite,” Dodders adds, just as a waitress is replacing the candle in their table lantern. Then, “Aziraphale, she was splendid. Did you know she could sing?”

“No,” he answers truthfully. He realises then that his mouth is incredibly dry; has it really been hanging open this whole time, whilst Crowley performed? He shuts it, swallows, continues a little uselessly: “No, I didn’t.”

“You’ve known her for a long time, though, no?” Bing queries. 

And that makes the waitress pause as she’s lighting the new candle. “Sir- sorry, sir, but you know Toni?”

Aziraphale doesn’t realise that she’s speaking to him at first- he double takes awkwardly. “Oh! Sorry?”

“You know Toni?” the girl asks with great enthusiasm. “She’s amazing, sir. I’ve always wanted to go talk to her but I’m too afraid to; all the other girls say she’s wildly inspirational and tells them all about the big wide world. Did you know she’s been everywhere? She’s been to China, you know! And America!”

“Oh?” Aziraphale replies weakly.

“And apparently, last week, she heard that Lucy’s boyfriend- Lucy, the dancer, that is- she found out that Lucy’s boyfriend was messing around with some other girl, so Toni clocked him right in the face and told him where to shove it.”

“Oh.”

“And- sorry, sir, I’m talking too much.”

“Oh- it’s no problem at all-”

“Would you like another drink, sir?”

“I’m- I’m alright, actually, thank you-”

And the waitress is quickly gone again, a little flustered and perhaps embarrassed for having gushed about Crowley so enthusiastically. Or, Toni. 

_Toni. That one’s new,_ Aziraphale thinks. 

He watches Crowley lift herself back onto the grand piano, twirling the cable of the microphone around her finger. Legs crossed, probably chatting with the pianist about their next tune, though he can't hear. 

It’s remarkable that Aziraphale hadn’t realised Crowley could sing, or even liked to. And as Crowley- or, Toni- strikes up the next song, a slow, sultry number, he listens. Really listens to the sound of that voice; it’s by no means perfect, a little gravelly and sibilant (the snake in her betraying itself). But it’s also enticing. There are very few other ways to put it; Crowley’s voice is tempting. 

Aziraphale doesn’t hear what his friends talk about for the rest of the night. All he can do is watch. Watch and fall impossibly deeper in love. 

***

It takes some persuading- which Aziraphale doesn’t like to do often- but he does manage to get backstage.

Toni Crowley has her own dressing room, separate from the other band members and dancers. Aziraphale feels incredibly out of place as he stands at the door and knocks, girls in flapper dresses giggling coquettishly as they run past him, whispering _who’s the man going to visit Toni? Do you recognise him?_

Aziraphale watches them go and blinks. Looks down at his suit- brushes himself off, straightens what he can and-

The door opens. And Crowley cocks her head in surprise and leans sinuously against the door frame. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says in that slow, pleased voice. 

For a long moment, Aziraphale is speechless, smiles nervously. Crowley’s wearing a dressing gown, red curls loose from the marseille style now, hanging just above the jawline. There’s a cigarette in a long, slender holder between her fingers.

“Oh, right, yeah. Yes, forgot,” Crowley says, nodding and standing aside to let Aziraphale in. “You haven’t seen me like this, have you?”

Aziraphale, gratified, steps inside. It’s a small room with the one dressing table, a mirror framed with lightbulbs. It smells like hairspray. “No, this is the first. It suits you, my dear.”

Crowley doesn’t respond to that, only sniffs and wrinkles her nose. Never in the habit of accepting compliments. She drops the cigarette on the dressing table- it wasn’t lit in the first place, Aziraphale realises- and collapses into the one chair in the room, splaying about like she’s lost control of her limbs. Crowley’s never sat any other way. “So, how’d you find me here, then?”

Aziraphale stands on the spot in the middle of the room, having nowhere else to sit. He blinks at Crowley, who peers at him through sunglasses, brows raised expectantly. “Well, it wasn’t actually intentional. I came here with some friends.”

“Friends?” Crowley repeats, brows raising further. 

“Yes, friends. I do have other friends, you know.”

“Oh, God- not- not the silly bastards from the club you go to.”

“The Lansdowne, yes.”

“Right, so you lot just happened to stumble across this place?”

“That’s the whole story.”

Crowley is slouched in the chair, dressing gown loose around the neck so it shows a peek of collar bone. And then she stands up abruptly, starts tidying the things on her dressing table. Back turned to Aziraphale, reorganising makeup and hair products in perfect order.

“Right,” she says. “So. So, you were in the audience tonight, then?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says brightening. “You know, Crowley, you have the most spectacular voice- how did I not know-?”

“You heard both songs?”

He blinks dumbly again. “Well, yes.” Aziraphale hadn’t actually been listening all too hard to the lyrics of either of the songs, just the voice itself. He’d been too captivated by the sight of his best friend having a wail of a time on stage singing her heart out. “I very much enjoyed seeing you perform. I wish I’d known that you had such a passion for it.”

Crowley knocks something over loudly. Aziraphale watches the way the hand that goes to retrieve it shakes a little, and he frowns to himself. 

“Right. Wonderful. Splendid,” Crowley says tensely. 

Curls of red hair bounce as she moves. They look just like they did back in Eden, all those years ago. 

“Toni’s a new name, then?” Aziraphale tries, a little awkwardly, flashing a smile- for no reason, since Crowley has her back turned and isn’t looking in the mirror’s reflection. “Last I remember, you liked going by Mary.”

There’s a pause, and then Crowley relaxes a little. And Aziraphale sees the normal mannerisms return, swaying from side to side as she talks, listens, does anything- Crowley can never stay still for very long, always undulating here and there. 

“Yeah, well. Mary got a bit old, after a while. Mary Magdalene was my peak, really- felt wrong reviving the name after that.”

“And who’d have thought you were a singer!”

“I can play the piano too, you know.”

Aziraphale gasps, claps his hands together in excited surprise. Crowley snorts, turns to look at him over one shoulder.

“Really?”

“Yep. Can do both at the same time and everything.”

“Oh, Crowley! How wonderful!”

“It’s- it’s really nothing to make a big fuss about. Mozart taught me a little, back in the day,” she remarks nonchalantly, turning back around fully to look at Aziraphale again. Leaning against the dresser. “Jazz’s a bit different, though. All sort of, er. You know, about letting go of preconceived rules and whatever.”

“And the singing?”

“Ah, I’ve always done it, I suppose. Music just comes with the whole tempting business, really.”

“Oh yes. That does rather explain the whole siren thing.”

A few thousand years ago, stories of women called sirens started cropping up all over the world. Crowley had always taken credit for them, and never explained how. The mystery of how exactly Crowley had started this myth, and whether sirens _actually_ exist, has always tortured Aziraphale. 

“Like I say, comes with the tempting-demon package,” Crowley confirms. “Speaking tongues etcetera. Never seen Hastur or Listur do anything quite as sexy as lying on a grand piano. Think I’d pay _not_ to see that.” 

“I think most people would.”

Crowley smirks, and Aziraphale beams back. And it’s always amazed Aziraphale, how after however long they last saw each other, whether it’s two weeks or two centuries, they both somehow fall right back into routine. Talking as if they are simply two best friends who like to spend time together and who know each other better than anyone else. Rather than the complicated version of the story, which is that they’re an angel and a demon fighting on opposite sides of a celestial war. 

It makes the whole ‘living amongst humans’ thing a little jarring. Being with Crowley, who he trusts so utterly and completely and knows inside out, to then going back to his club friends and drinking himself silly- it’s strange. Two very different experiences. One feels like home, the other doesn’t.

“Oh,” Aziraphale starts, taking a small step towards Crowley. “I had almost forgotten. I was- well, I was wondering if you could do me an enormous favour.”

Crowley’s expression turns weary. “It’s not my turn to do the miracles, angel. You’re due to go to Liverpool next week.”

“Yes, yes, alright, but- wait, Liverpool? What on Earth do Hell want you in Liverpool for?”

“Have you been to Liverpool, angel? It should be fairly obvious it’s one of ours. No, just- head up there and confetti some good and bad about the place.”

“Alright, but that’s not actually what I wanted to ask about.”

“No?”

“No, this favour is more of the personal variety. I’ve been invited to go to Devon for a long weekend with the Lansdowne gang-” Crowley makes a rude, snoring noise and hangs her head like she’s asleep. Aziraphale ploughs on, “-and they always end up being a bit messy. Good fun, but I wouldn’t mind some moral support.”

“I don’t do moral support, only immoral,” Crowley drawls.

“Yes, very witty. What I mean is, will you come with me?”

Crowley doesn’t respond immediately. She leans against the dresser and tilts her head as she considers, pouts her lips. Aziraphale waits apprehensively, giving his most imploring look.

Then, she sighs. “Aaaah, alright then. Alright, fine, yes, I’ll come.”

“Oh, wow, really?” Aziraphale breathes, smiling to himself and looking away. He can’t help it, he’s overwhelmed by how quickly Crowley accepted the invitation, and it floods him with bashfulness. “You won’t absolutely hate me forever?”

“Eh,” Crowley shrugs.

“It would mean a lot. Thank you.”

“Don’t,” Crowley wrinkles her nose. “Just tell me when and where.”

“I’m not sure yet, but I can meet you at The Ritz on Thursday for lunch and I’ll tell you all the details then?”

Crowley stands up and makes a pronounced nod. “Yep. Meet you there, one o’clock.”

“One o’clock it is,” Aziraphale says, feeling unbearably pleased.

If he’s smiling like an idiot, which he’s fairly sure he is, then Crowley doesn’t make any comment. She merely smiles wryly to herself and goes to show Aziraphale out.

“Sorry to kick you out,” she sighs, “I have another show, and in a few minutes this room will be filled with dancers in skimpy dresses telling me their relationship problems. Figured you might want an escape before that happens.”

Crowley says this like she’s very put upon, but Aziraphale knows better.

“Oh yes, appreciated. I did actually have a very lovely waitress telling me all about you playing fisticuffs with someone’s boyfriend.”

Her smile is a little smug. It makes Aziraphale's heart skip. “He deserved it.”

Crowley opens the door and Aziraphale hangs in the doorway awkwardly for a long moment, simply looking at Crowley. Looking at his beautiful, shape-shifting best friend, wringing his hands anxiously.

“Yes, I’m sure he did,” he replies mock-seriously. Then, he flicks a quick smile before turning and leaving.

Aziraphale heads down the corridor and back into the main bar area, having to make his way through a river of giggling girls in order to do so. They all cast curious glances at him, then, by the sounds of it, pour into Crowley’s dressing room. The moment Crowley’s door closes, they all burst into ecstatic laughter.

It makes Aziraphale pause self-consciously in the corridor to stare uselessly at the door, before returning to his friends in the bar.

***

It’s Friday morning, and Aziraphale is standing in Bingy’s flat with a weekend bag at his feet. He looks out of the window, which has a very nice view of Russell Square.

“Have you packed a swimming costume, old chap?”

“I don’t really do swimming, I’m afraid,” he calls back, eyes peering down at the pavement below. It’s nine thirty in the morning, and the lawyers and businessmen are making their way to work. Looking down from above, it’s impossible to see what anyone looks like with their hats on, covering any sign of their faces or hair. It creates a strange image; the pale pavements with black suited clones wandering about purposefully. The odd young lady walking through the park, little dogs trotting ahead of them. Old couples sitting on benches below.

Aziraphale smiles. His heart is always warmer, after seeing old couples. Sitting together on the same bench every day as they have since they first met each other. Or at least, that’s what his romantic heart likes to imagine.

“_Buggeration_.”

“What is it,” Aziraphale calls mildly, watching one particular couple. The old man takes the woman’s hand in his and pats it absent-mindedly. Aziraphale’s smile grows.

“I don’t know what Humphrey is expecting.” Bing is the only one who refers to Dodders by his real name, no doubt after having known him for so long. “Is he planning to throw us in the ocean at some point? Go hunting? I just don’t know what to pack.”

The idea of having to go hunting makes his stomach turn. He’ll simply stay at home and read his book, thank you very much. “If in doubt, bring it all,” Aziraphale eventually replies.

There’s a soft brush up against his leg, and he looks down to find a cat.

“Oh, hello,” he greets the tabby cat brightly.

“Oh, sorry, she’s a bit of a tart,” Bing calls from the other room. “She’ll flirt with all the strangers she meets.”

Aziraphale watches the cat make little circles around his ankle before picking her up. She mewls happily and lays her paws on his shoulder, like she’s on the lookout. And whilst she may have left brown fur all over his nice white linen suit, his love for all creatures (great and small) overwhelms the fussy part of him.

“What’s your name, young lady?” he asks.

The cat meows.

“Alfredo.”

Aziraphale frowns at Bing’s bedroom door. “Pardon?”

“Yes, I thought she was a boy when I got her as a kitten. Seemed rude to change her name without her agreement, especially as she seemed to like it.”

Aziraphale accepts this, and continues to look out of the window, stroking Alfredo who has begun to purr happily in his ear.

It’s a bit of a cloudy morning, but the weather reports have assured them all that it will be sunny and roaring hot come lunch time. Aziraphale peers up at the sky and thinks a silent prayer that the weather will hold. Then, looking back down at the pavement, he continues to watch the people mill about. Two policemen escort a bedraggled looking young man in a nice suit- or at least, it had been probably been nice last night, before whatever escapades he’d gotten into. He also still looks very drunk. The two old women walking in the opposite direction practically plaster themselves against the wall of Bing’s apartment building to avoid him.

The flat door bursts open.

“Bing! Hurry your sodding arse up!” Dodders proclaims, practically kicking the door down.

Alfredo leaps out of Aziraphale’s arms and skitters up onto the mantelpiece, watching with suspicious eyes. Dodders is the human manifestation of a golden Labrador, and Alfredo therefore seems to like to keep her distance.

Xeno and Jules follow, collapsing onto the sofa and making themselves immediately at home. Aziraphale hasn’t done the same, having never been here before. Equally, none of the others have been to the bookshop. None of them have questioned his preference for this privacy, and he’s grateful that they’re also very respectful of it.

No- the only person he lets visit him at the bookshop is Crowley. 

“I’ll take as long as I like, Humphrey,” Bing calls from the bedroom, sounding like he’s already losing his patience with Dodders.

_They’re a little like an old married couple themselves,_ Aziraphale thinks. _Or perhaps it’s more that they remind me of another couple. Though, I can’t think who._

“Settle down, Dods, old boy. Remember we’re waiting for the girls, too, there’s no rush.”

“No, the girls are all getting the train down together.”

“Oh.”

“We’re waiting for Crowley, not the girls.”

Azirphale looks out the window and inhales sharply with excitement. “There he is.”

There’s a brief pause. And then, everyone in the apartment sprints over to the window. They gather around Aziraphale and poke their faces into any space they can to look down below.

At first, Aziraphale didn’t recognise him. Because, last time he checked, Crowley didn’t have a car. Right now, he’s pulled up outside Bing’s apartment on the other side of the road, beside the park railings. Quite spectacular parking too, he’s positively slipped into the free space, nice and snug up to the curve. The roof of the car is pulled back, and so Aziraphale can see him put on the hand break and quickly swing himself out of the car, closing the door with his hip. His red hair slicked back. He takes his suit jacket off and throws it over his shoulder, leaving him in black trousers and white summer shirt, black bracers. A frown on his face, brow furrowed above his sunglasses as he scans the apartment buildings and looks for the right number.

Aziraphale watches for a long moment, something in him buzzing excitedly, and almost proudly. _I know that very handsome person, right there. That's my best friend._

And then Crowley looks up, spots them all staring. He gives a mockingly sweet, sneering smile. Waves, waggling his fingers.

With a flush of embarrassment, Aziraphale wades through his four friends to head to the front door. None of them have the shame to move out of the way, only continue to stare.

“Gosh, what a nice car.”

“He’s even more suave than I thought he’d be.”

“No, he’s just about as cool as I imagined. Golly, I feel suddenly underdressed.”

“The spitting image of his sister, my _word_.”

“Look at those sunglasses-”

“Is that a Bentley he’s driving?”

“Christ, I think _I_ fancy him-”

The one thing he hadn’t actually considered until now is that they all know that he’s arse over tits for Crowley. They’re not going to let Aziraphale forget it throughout this whole weekend, he now realises.

Inviting Crowley may not, actually, have been a particularly sensible decision.

Aziraphale stoically ignores all their comments and makes his way down the staircase as calmly as he possibly can. He doesn’t manage, as by the last flight, he’s taking them two at a time. When he swings open the door, Crowley immediately spots him and nods his head in acknowledgement. And he wonders over to Aziraphale, crossing the road a bit haphazardly- not caring about the car that’s had to come to a screeching halt to let him pass.

“You’ve made me get up for a nine am start, angel.”

“Sorry, dear boy,” Aziraphale says with a helpless smile.

Crowley continues to hold onto his suit jacket, thrown over his shoulder, and looks up at the apartment building. “This it, then?”

“Yes.”

“Are any of them getting in the car with us?”

“I’m not sure. None of us knew you’d be bringing your own car, honestly, I think Jules was planning on taking us.”

“So the four of them could go in one, and you and I can go in mine.”

Aziraphale narrows his eyes at him. “It feels a lot like you planned this.”

Crowley snarls, pokes a finger at him. “I’m doing you a favour coming to this blasted thing with you. I don’t need to socialise any more than I have to.”

“I have a feeling you’ll like Jules and Bing, at least.”

Crowley glares, turns on the spot so his jacket almost smacks Aziraphale in the face. He starts to cross the road. “Right, come on, then.”

“Well, I have to go fetch my bag, first.”

“Alright, don’t take forever.”

Aziraphale tuts and goes back inside, taking the stairs with nowhere near as much enthusiasm now that he’s going up.

When he gets to Bing’s front door, he’s immediately greeted by Xeno.

“I want to sit in the front of Crowley’s car.”

“Xeno, really,” Dodders says. “Let the poor man have his friend in the front with him, if only so he doesn’t have to deal with you asking him silly questions.”

“I like Bentleys,” Xeno moans. “And I want to talk to Crowley.”

“Leave Xeno alone, Dodders,” Bing remarks absently, as he tries to zip up his suitcase.

Xenophon preens a little at that, and Dodders rolls his eyes. Jules watches the interaction with much the same scientific distance as he usually does.

“Actually, Xeno, I thought I’d sit in the front,” Aziraphale says kindly.

“Alright,” Bing announces, picking up his bursting weekend bag. “I reckon us four can go in Jules' car, and you two can have some space. You’ll need to acquaint him with us in increments, after all, I think it’d rather horrify him if we talked his ear off for four hours in the car.”

“I feel quite the same,” Aziraphale agrees with audible relief.

And so, that is how it goes. The five of them head down stairs, Xenophon and Dodders chattering absolutely nonsense, Jules listening and saying nothing, Bing making the odd dry remark. Aziraphale smiling nervously, until they reach the street again, where they find Crowley leaning against the passenger door of the car.

Dodders is about to bound over with his usual Labrador excitement. Bing physically holds him back. “Give the man a bloody minute, Dodders.”

Aziraphale closes his eyes and sighs. He is already absolutely mortified by how this weekend is going. He had no idea how excited they all were to meet Crowley. He supposes, if he has spoken so much about him (which he apparently has), he would have created almost a mythical aura about Crowley. Which isn’t far off.

Crowley is a demon, after all.

“Hello again,” Aziraphale approaches with a quiet smile, throwing his bag in the back of the Bentley.

“Hullo.”

“Do you know where you’re going, old chap? Name’s Alistair, this lot call me Bing.”

Bing is extending his hand for a handshake with a reserved, pursed smile. Crowley shakes it a little indifferently, looking the other way down the street. Dodders and Xeno are practically vibrating with jealousy, whereas Jules has decided he doesn’t care and is already in his car. Aziraphale watches, hands laced in front of his chest, a feeling of anticipation- like he’s either waiting for a fight or a miracle.

“Aziraphale gave me the address. ‘Sides, I’ll just follow you if I get lost.”

“Good, good,” Bing nods. “Hope to see you there in one piece, then. Marvellous to finally meet you.”

With that simple interaction, Bing goes over to Jules’ car, where Xeno and Dodders immediately ambush him with whispered questions.

Crowley watches them all flap about, then looks at Aziraphale, with brows raised- a look that says, _really? This lot are your friends?_

“They’re nice when you get to know them,” Aziraphale says seriously, opening the passenger door and sitting down. It’s fairly comfortable in here, too. “I’m sure you’ll get on with them just fine.”

“I might end up killing the more excitable ones.”

“Oh, Dodders? He’s alright, really,” he remarks brushing cat hair off his suit as Crowley slides into the driver’s seat. “Besides, you haven’t killed me, yet, and I’ve been reliably informed that I’m irritatingly positive.”

“Yeah, that’s different though.”

“Is it?”

“Well, yes. Obviously it’s different with you. I- You’re- never mind.”

Aziraphale doesn’t have time to ask what he means by that, because Crowley has pulled out into the road with such alarming speed that it makes Aziraphale’s stomach swoop. He grabs onto the car door for dear life.

“Crowley! You’ll get us both discorporated!”

“It’ll be _fine_,” he says, waving one dismissive hand at him.

“Can you even drive?”

“Of course, what do you take me for?” He snarls. “It’s not like anyone really learns to drive, anyway, you just get a car and press some pedals, easy.”

“That isn’t very encouraging- you’d think there ought to be some sort of system. You know, whereby people can assess whether someone actually has the skills required to manoeuvre one of these machines.”

“What, like a driving _test_? Nah, can’t see that catching on. Oh, er, you may need this.”

Crowley’s hand fumbles in the backseat, and then he passes him a scarf.

“Whatever for?” Aziraphale demands.

“For your head.”

“My head?”

“Yes, I’m, I’m trying to be chivalrous, angel, put the sodding scarf on.”

“Why, though, Crowley?”

“So the wind doesn’t mess up your hair, or, hurt your ears, or, I don’t really know, I’ve just seen other people do it, put the fucking scarf on.”

“Now, there’s no need to talk to me like that.”

He takes the scarf and looks at it. It’s silvery, with little green snakes all over it.

Aziraphale casts Crowley a glance.

“It was a present, just a coincidence,” he retorts.

And so Aziraphale complies, tying a neat little bow below his chin with the silky scarf. He does, actually, feel quite fabulous now.

They drive through London, following Jules’ car all the way to Devon. The drive should be long, but it goes by quickly. They shout to each other over the noise of the wind, talking about things that Aziraphale won’t remember the next day but are enjoyable to discuss at the time. And when they reach the countryside, Aziraphale suddenly understands the need for the headscarf, the wind making his eyes water and whipping the material of the silk. The sun has fully come out, and the Bentley roars down the little winding, country roads, hedges on either side of them. He feels the fresh air stinging his cheeks, lets his hand hang outside the car so he can feel the wind rush through his fingers. Crowley relaxes a little more every minute that passes.

And Crowley will occasionally turn his eyes away from the road to look at Aziraphale, when he thinks he doesn’t notice. He does, and it makes Aziraphale’s heart sing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song in this chapter, by the way, is I'm Not Sleepin' by Big Bad Voodoo Daddy


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Crowley. Crowley, Crowley, Crowley. you have it so, so bad.
> 
> **PLEASE check out the amazing fan art people have done of Toni- **
> 
> **[here](https://selene-yoshi-chan.tumblr.com/post/187360790711/he-recognises-her-face-he-recognises-the) and [here](https://themisspool.tumblr.com/post/187011999182/a-poster-for-crowley-appearing-as-a-1920s-jazz) and [here](https://artemisflor.tumblr.com/post/186989911137/show-chapter-archive) AND [here!!!](https://blithefool.tumblr.com/post/187220954976/this-is-for-justkeeptrekkin-because-celestial)**

The drive to Devon is so enjoyable, that Crowley almost forgets that he’s signed himself up for a truly awful weekend. 

Aziraphale is on good form. He suits the stupid little scarf he’s given him- Crowley had a horrible feeling he would- and the angel looks very pleased with himself as he watches the countryside roll by, wincing in the sun. Crowley finds it almost impossible not to stare. A large part of that is down to the fact that he’s immeasurably in love with Aziraphale- though, actually, most of it is because he looks so daft with that little bow tied under his chin. But then, the daftness is a part of what makes Aziraphale so loveable. 

And this. _This_ is why Crowley doesn’t agree to more weekends away.

Driving in the sun in his new car, with his best friend by his side. It’s a good feeling, a _nice_ feeling. And that’s not right. Nice feelings are absolutely fucking prohibited. No soft squirming feelings in his chest should be indulged. No thoughts about going on romantic walks. And he absolutely must not consider that Aziraphale had explicitly asked for his company in all of this. These thoughts and feelings are _banned_. Because there is no way Crowley is letting himself fall any deeper. He’s fallen enough in one lifetime. 

No- all this is, is a friend joining a friend for a _friend_ thing. Friend things exclusively- that had pretty much been the entire gist of that conversation in Crowley’s dressing room, in fact. Aziraphale had made it very clear that this weekend was about friends being stupid, and that he’d needed someone more sensible (haha) to join him for support. And Crowley had graciously accepted the invitation on the basis that it was a _friend thing_. A _friend thing only_. Nothing to fuss over.

Which is naturally why his heart is hammering in his chest with intense anxiety, like an angry gorilla banging on the glass in the zoo. He’s kind of concerned it’ll break free. 

Well, if it does, Crowley thinks, he’ll just end up discorporated and he won’t have to do this whole Devon thing. That would be good; it would save him from a weekend of pretending he likes Aziraphale’s friends and pretending even harder that he isn’t in love with Aziraphale. Because this is a _friend. Thing._

Not that pretending isn’t his forte by now. Crowley’s been fooling himself like this for thousands of years. He has the will power to fool anything into doing anything; he’d held together Rome for a little while before its collapse, purely through strength of will. It’s that strength that he’s used to hold him together for this long, too.

Although he can feel that strength waver a bit, now, as he drives to Crossley Hall.

Because as Crowley drives, he can’t stop thinking about that night in the dressing room, and what Aziraphale said. He’s replaying the scene at the back of his mind, replaying the moment that Aziraphale had congratulated him so casually on his music skills, on how lovely his voice is. Because, if Aziraphale had seen Crowley perform, then that means he’d heard the song that Crowley sort of written about him. The second song, that is, not the first. And, more than that, judging by the rather casual way Aziraphale remarked that he liked both songs very much, without making any particular distinction, Crowley reckons that means that he hadn’t listened to the lyrics at all. 

Which is probably a good thing. 

Crowley drives, feels the wind push back waves of hair- follows the terrible, non-existent signs towards the village of Frogmore, their destination. Overhanging trees casting dappled sunlight on the narrow roads, creating a leafy tunnel. Thatched cottages and boxes on the street selling eggs and fresh vegetables. The sound of seagulls. And Aziraphale chatters happily about something, and Crowley listens- he listens to everything Aziraphale talks about even if it’s bollocks. This time, Aziraphale poses the benefits of clotted cream over whipped cream. And the more Crowley listens, the more he forgets why he’s panicking, and just lets himself lean into it. Like a drunkard who’s forgotten what a hangover is. 

There’s a small wooden sign pointing into what looks like a hedgerow, before Crowley realises that there’s a little driveway amongst the bushes. He hopes he’s found the right place; he’d lost Jules’ (?) car on the way. He really can’t be arsed traipsing round the whole of Devon trying to find this place- he’d rather drive them back to London so he can save them _both_ from this whole weekend. So he can have the angel all to himself. 

Which is not a thought he’s going to dwell on any further. 

Aziraphale makes a quiet noise of surprise and interest as they turn into the little driveway. Then, “This must be it, then.”

“Looks like.”

Crowley parks the Bentley on the gravelled drive of a grand, Jacobean house, dark grey stone covered in ivy and some very well kept flowers lining the ground in front of the facade. The sun is well and truly out, and the whole place is colourful. The sea air has been carried over, and Crowley tastes it; it’s been a while since he’s been to the coast. Getting out of the car, he turns to Aziraphale and gives him a raised-browed look that says _this ain’t so bad, eh?_, and Aziraphale nods, also appearing impressed. 

And though it’s not very chivalrous of him, Crowley allows himself to witness Aziraphale’s struggle with the bow that he’s tied too tightly below his chin, trying to remove the headscarf. He’d offer help, but the moment is too amusing to ruin by helping. Instead, Crowley leans against the car and watches as the angel tuts and finally pulls it off his head, throwing it a little angrily into the car. 

He shakes his head to himself. Internally, he’s smiling.

Yes- the drive has been _so_ nice that he’d almost forgotten about why he’s here in the first place. But when he turns around to survey their accommodation for the weekend, he is immediately accosted. 

And so he quickly remembers what he’s in for. 

“Crowley! Crowley! Hello- I’m Dodders. It’s so nice to finally meet you, this is my home- well, not so much _my_ home, it’s where I was brought up and my parents technically still run it, one of these days I’m meant to take over as the master of the house but that’s frightfully boring and there aren’t any interesting people around here, which is why I invited the others and I think we all drive Aziraphale a bit mad so he brought you along but of course you know that-”

There doesn’t seem to be any sign of him stopping. Crowley watches as the man in front of him babbles with child-like excitement, his thick-lensed glasses making his wide eyes even comically larger. Behind him, one of the others, with beautifully arranged black hair and a blank (albeit happy) look in his eyes gazes at Crowley from the other car. Bingy gives Crowley an apologetic glance as he lays a hand on Dodders’ oblivious shoulder for him to stop. 

The fourth one is standing on the porch with his weekend bag in hand, looking just about ready for a lie down. 

This is where he has to start pretending that he gives a shit about the rest of them. But all Crowley can manage is a strained, winced smile, standing there and waiting for this one-way conversation to finish. 

The things he’ll do for Aziraphale.

The angel holds up two hands to Dodders. “Alright, now- perhaps we could go inside and you can tell Crowley all about yourself there.”

Crowley raises his brows at Aziraphale again: _Will I now?_ The angel refuses to look back. 

“Good idea, Aziraphale,” Bingy nods, hand still on Dodders’ shoulder and an encouraging smile. “I say we get the party going.”

It would take a blind man not to see it. Aziraphale must have noticed too, surely, the way Bingy looks at Dodders. There’s very little impatience in that expression. Rather, the look is mostly admiration. And the two of them share a glance that requires, apparently, no translation for either of them. With a single nod, Dodders turns around and shows them into the house. Bingy follows just behind. 

_Interesting_, Crowley thinks. Because, firstly, he knows that the silly one has a girlfriend who’s meant to be joining them. And secondly, because the two of them actually remind him of another couple, though he can’t for the life of him think who.

Whilst Dodders shows Aziraphale his room at the end of the corridor- walking backwards and talking at one hundred miles an hour about the house’s history, the angel humouring him patiently- Bing is given the duty of showing Crowley where he’s staying. With a simple _let me know if you need anything, old boy_ he’s left to settle in. He’s been given a large but cluttered room- by Crowley’s standards, at least- with an ancient looking four poster and rather chintzy sheets. There are paintings of generals and ladies from centuries ago, the Doddering-Heights family, no doubt. They all share the same chinless face and non-threatening smile as Dodders. It smells like dust and a clock ticks loudly on an old, wooden chest of drawers. 

Crowley drops his bag on the floor and collapses onto the bed, falling backwards with arms splayed. It creaks and a new wave of dust bursts into the air around him. 

He falls asleep.

He reckons it must only have been a twenty minute, half-hour power nap at most, because when he opens his eyes he just feels groggy. And the sun has only moved a few centimeters. And, he reckons if he’d slept much longer, he’d have had Aziraphale coming to look for him. 

Speaking of which, Crowley can hear him. He can hear his light, cheerful voice coming from outside. Perhaps that’s what woke Crowley up in the first place.

He sits up with a grumble, makes his way to the window and looks out- his room has a view of the back garden- box hedges and rose beds, exotic trees and orchids, a gardener’s heaven. And beyond that, a tennis court, and beyond that, the village of Frogmore, and beyond that, the sea. A light blue haze settled above it, so it’s impossible to distinguish the horizon between the blue of the sky and the ocean. And down below, a little patio with cast iron white tables and chairs. 

Aziraphale sits at one of them. From here, Crowley can only see the top of his head and a bit of his profile; he’s sitting in the shade, a glass of something in his hands. Judging by the cucumber and strawberries and the ruby red colour of it, it’s Pimm's. There’s a white panama hat balanced on his knee, a cream band around it that matches his linen suit and tartan bow tie. And even though the window isn’t open, Crowley can hear them talking down below- can hear, above all, Aziraphale’s voice. 

These days, Crowley has tried to reserve his moments of angst and pining for the car. When he’s driving, he’s _usually_ by himself, which means he can mope as much as he likes and maybe take out his frustration by running through flocks of pigeons in Leicester Square and sending them flying. Or getting out of London entirely, roaring down the country roads and pressing his foot down on the pedal as far as it will go. Trying to chase some feeling of freedom. 

But this morning, he hadn’t been alone in the car. So he couldn’t really let loose with the angry-in-love feelings. 

And that’s left him feeling like this- gazing at Aziraphale from the window above, a little overcome by the jovial way he’s talking about scones. Still, somehow _still_ talking about scones and clotted cream. Aziraphale patiently listens to the others, sometimes shares a quiet, judgmental look with Jules. And Crowley wonders why on Earth Aziraphale really wanted him here, when he seems to be having a perfectly nice time without him. 

But then, that’s what it’s like, being in love with Aziraphale. One can live quite happily without the other. Millennia ago, Crowley had consigned himself to the fact that, yes- what he is experiencing is love. No, the angel doesn’t love him back. No, it doesn’t have to be a problem. It is simply a fact of life. There’s nothing more to it, and there doesn’t have to be. Two plus two equals four. The sun rises and the sun sets. And, Crowley loves Aziraphale. 

“Alright, you can stop being creepy and staring at him, now,” Crowley mutters to himself, removing himself from the window. He gives himself a once over- shrugging off his jacket again so he’s just in his shirt and bracers- before heading down the wide, dog-legged staircase.

He finds the doors to the back porch easily; he can feel the air drifting from outside through the corridor, and he follows the summer breeze. The wooden floorboards creak beneath him, the walls covered from inch to inch in family portraits and sketches of Devonshire countryside. There’s a little dining room- it feels more like a breakfast room, though it’s been a while that Crowley’s been anywhere this big or posh to remember the proper term for such a room- and then he’s out on the patio. 

Aziraphale is the first to notice him. His smile blossoms beautifully, and Crowley has to look away.

“You fell asleep, didn’t you?” Aziraphale’s tone is an unconvincing attempt at reprimanding. His glass of Pimm's poised at his lips.

“So what if I did.”

That’s when the others look up to view Crowley. Bing is stood behind Dodders’ chair with a cigarette between his lips, and he gives him a small, welcoming nod. Jules is staring at the lavender bush, where a few bees buzz happily. Xeno is over on the grass, inspecting the croquet set and talking to himself. And Dodders stands up abruptly, chair grating horribly against the porch stone, leans across the table to hand a fresh glass to Crowley. The man is practically shaking with the effort of not falling over, with how far he’s stretching. Crowley takes it slowly, without a word. 

“You know,” Dodders starts, “You’re the spitting image of your sister. You must be told that every day, mustn’t you?”

Crowley blinks at Dodders, holds the empty glass. Casts a side glance at Aziraphale for some answer, who’s pointedly looking the other way, shuffling awkwardly.

“She has the most remarkable voice. Are you both musicians?” Dodders continues, popping a slice of strawberry in his mouth and talking with his mouth full. “My parents forced me and my brother to play the piano, but I was atrocious.”

And then he understands. For a moment, Crowley wonders which direction to take this. Considers which one would be more fun. 

He looks down at Aziraphale, who’s now peering at him through his lashes, pursing his lips apologetically. He takes a slow, deep breath as he ponders, the sea breeze ruffling his styled hair out of place and making his shirt billow around his bracers. Eventually, he decides on his answer. 

“Oh, yes,” Crowley says slowly, nodding emphatically with a frown. “Oh, absolutely. Me and my sister. Both of us had music drilled into us from day one. By our parents. Yes, a family of four, we were.”

Aziraphale closes his eyes and sighs.

“You alright, Aziraphale?”

“Fine, fine, thank you, don’t mind me,” he replies with strained cheer. 

“Where were you brought up, if you don’t mind me asking, Crowley?”

“Not at all,” he replies quickly now. Ah, fucking around with this lot is going to be way too much fun. “We were born in Kent.”

“Oh yes! Kent is nice, isn’t it Bing? Do you remember Harry Henderson, at Eton? He was from Kent.”

“Aziraphale tells us you both met at Eton,” Bing adds.

That almost makes him burst out laughing. _Good one, angel,_ he thinks. _Eden? Eton? Very nice._ Although, considering that Aziraphale really isn’t an accomplished liar, Crowley reckons that this might have been a mistake- Aziraphale letting slip about Eden, and the others mishearing. Yes, that seems more likely. 

Nonetheless, he looks down at Aziraphale with a surprised, pleased grin. Aziraphale shakes his head at him minutely, eyes wide and imploring.

“Eton.” Crowley pours himself some Pimm's, takes some tongs and plops some ice in there. “Mmm. Yup. We met at Eton, long time ago, now. Feels like thousands of years, sometimes.”

“Don’t I know the feeling, old chap!” Dodders exclaims. “Sometimes I just feel so awfully old.”

“It’s easy to imagine you two running around as young whipper-snappers, growing up together and all. Sounds as if you got up to some amazing adventures, too,” Bing says, cigarette bouncing in his mouth.

Crowley looks at Aziraphale, raises his eyebrows. This is only getting better and better. He turns fully towards the angel, one hand in his pocket and the other cradling his glass, hip cocked to the side. “We did, didn’t we? Remind me, Aziraphale? Which stories have you told them?”

Aziraphale glares at him. 

“Oh, he’s told us all of them,” Dodders replies happily. “All about how you two went to America and almost got in a bar fight with cowboys!”

“Oh, really? He told you all about that, did he?”

Aziraphale looks like he might burst into flames. His face is bright red and he’s glaring at Crowley with the heat of a thousand suns. Crowley just smiles back, wiggling his head smugly.

“I think my favourite story has to be- well, at least, the way Aziraphale tells it- when you two were in Rome.”

That had been pretty fun. Aziraphale had actually bumped into him trying to creep into Vatican City to do some corrupting. Aziraphale had been scandalised, but not massively surprised either, when all was said and done. And Crowley had felt that it would be more fun just going for dinner somewhere with Aziraphale rather than doing much more tempting, whilst Aziraphale was concerned that the Pope was a lost cause anyway. So they’d both skived off work and gotten drunk by the river Tiber drinking red wine. And then they’d gotten into enormous trouble for one reason or another, he can’t remember what exactly- it may have been because Crowley started making drunken, rude gestures at The Vatican and almost had himself arrested for it. Aziraphale had to miracle them away from the authorities- which at least made up for Crowley saving him at the Bastille. That had been 1821, just over a century ago. 

“What else’s he told you, then?” Crowley asks, still watching the way Aziraphale blushes and glares. It makes his chest burn, his heart flip, his horrible human body do horribly pleasant things. “He told you about Jerusalem?”

“Oh, good Lord,” Aziraphale tuts, rolling his eyes and turning away, giving him the cold shoulder.

“Jerusalem? Oh, how wonderful!”

“No? Nothing else you’d like to share, Aziraphale?” Crowley suggests lightly, taking a sip of Pimm's. It’s strong and sweet. 

“Stop it, Crowley.”

Bing chuckles, runs a hand through sandy blond hair. “Good to see that you pull Aziraphale’s leg, too. We all like to tease him a little.”

“And it’s extraordinarily unfair,” the angel complains.

“You’ve survived this long,” Crowley replies.

“That doesn’t mean I like it.”

Crowley snorts. Bingy laughs.

“It is awfully nice to finally meet you, old chap,” Dodders adds to this. “As you can tell, we’ve heard an awful lot about you.”

“He talks about you all the time. He’s a bit obsessed.”

Jules is the one to say this. Everyone is stunned for a short second, and then, Crowley almost spits out his drink. Instead, he chokes on it, trying not to laugh. And also, possibly, spontaneously combust with panic and confusion and embarrassment and a large, healthy dose of denial.

Eventually he swallows his Pimms and croaks, “Interesting.”

“No! I am- excuse me, what have I ever done to you, Jules?” Aziraphale blurts, looking betrayed. “I thought we were friends.”

And Crowley finds himself smiling at Aziraphale again, undeniably interested in where this conversation has gone. How much has he told them all? Clearly, they have no clue about the whole angel and demon thing. But they obviously have an idea of how much the two of them have experienced together. And judging by the school playground way they’re teasing Aziraphale, making him go bright red and adorably furious, Crowley would almost say that they’re trying to embarrass him in front of Crowley. 

He’s not certain why, but he’s enjoying it. 

Before he can take pity on the angel and save him from this, the other member of the Lansdowne gang wonders over, a croquet mallet over his shoulder and a big, dopey grin on his face. 

“I think croquet is just the most smashing game there is.”

Crowley doesn’t think Xenophon’s ever thought anything in his life. But he doesn’t say this, only sips his drink quietly. 

Dodders sighs. “Have you forgotten the rules again, Xeno? I can go help you set it up.”

But Xeno isn’t listening- his face splits into a larger grin as his eyes land on Crowley. “Crowley! Oh, I had almost forgotten you were here! How exciting. You know, you look just like your sister. That was your sister the other night at the speakeasy, no?”

“We’ve already covered that, Xeno,” Dodders replies. 

“Oh.”

Aziraphale sits primly on his garden chair and drinks roughly half of his Pimms in one go.

Then Xenophon asks, “What’s your real name?” 

Crowley blinks at him. “My real name?” he asks slowly.

“Your first name, he means,” Bing translates.

“Anthony.”

Aziraphale looks up at him with a furrowed brow. Crowley hasn’t told him this much yet. 

“Wait. So- your sister is called Toni?” Bing asks. “As in-?”

“Antonia,” Crowley says. “Yep.”

“And your name is _Anthony_?” Dodders asks incredulously.

“Yep.”

“Golly, how confusing,” Xeno remarks with a little frown. 

“Your parents had a vendetta against you both from birth, then?” Bing asks.

Aziraphale sighs, almost inaudibly, and pours himself more Pimm's. It seems he’s given up being distressed by this situation and has resigned, instead, to getting very drunk and ignoring Crowley entirely.

“S’pose so,” he replies. 

Jules is looking up at him now, with narrowed, suspicious eyes. _At least this one doesn’t seem to be an idiot,_ Crowley thinks. 

“Twins,” Dodders continues, grimacing in bafflement. “Called Anthony Crowley and Antonia Crowley?”

“Yep.”

This is far, far too much fun. 

“Well,” Bing shrugs. “I suppose it isn’t as bad as calling your child Xenophon. Or Aziraphale.”

That makes Dodders laugh, and Xenophon laughs too, though it looks a lot like he doesn’t understand why he’s laughing. 

“So what’s the plan for today then, Dodders?” Aziraphale announces, sitting up straight in his seat and looking seriously at his friend, trying to shift the conversation as best he can.

Dodders looks up at Bing, who shrugs.

“Well,” he replies, “I was thinking we could just get uproariously drunk. Then perhaps have dinner, though we’ll be cooking ourselves because my parents took Thomas with them.” The butler, Crowley presumes. “There’s a nice sort of pub type of thing a little walk from here. I don’t know, really, I thought perhaps we could see where the day takes us.”

“I think the weather is roaring hot tomorrow,” Bing adds, leaning against Dodders’ chair. Crowley notices the way Aziraphale smiles at the gesture; an angel never misses love language. “So we should all do the beach then, I’d say.”

“You should show Aziraphale the library,” Jules remarks, peeling the skin off a slice of cucumber.

That makes the angel sit up straighter in his seat, face relaxing into a lip-parted look of surprise. It’s child-like in its innocent joy, and it makes Crowley want to turn right back around, get in his car, and drive his Bentley off a cliff.

Most of the time, loving Aziraphale is easy. Sometimes, it’s painfully difficult.

“A library! Oh, I would love to see it.”

“_No,_ Jules!” Dodders complains. “The whole reason I hadn’t mentioned it was because I knew we’d lose Aziraphale all weekend in there if I showed him!”

“He would have found it either way,” Crowley remarks. And he’s almost taken aback, alarmed by how everyone gives him their direct attention. The novelty of meeting him hasn’t worn off, then. “Aziraphale can smell a book a mile away, he’d’ve drifted in there somehow.”

“It’s true,” Aziraphale admits with a smile that pretends to be embarrassed.

“Alright, go show him the library,” Bing announces. “Then, I think we should get some drinks flowing, get some nibbles out, and just get absolutely sozzled.”

At that, Aziraphale stands up decisively. He takes the Pimm's jug and his glass, and refills. There’s a set, determined expression on his face as he pours for everyone else.

“A very good idea, Bing,” Aziraphale says seriously. 

They all clink their glasses together with a cheers. And Crowley watches as Aziraphale practically pours half his drink down his throat in one, wondering what on Earth has made the angel so on edge.

***

Four hours later, and they’re all _way_ past sozzled. 

Xeno is lying on the sofa, half asleep. Jules is gazing out of the window, waiting for the girls to arrive- like a dog, desperately hoping to see its owner come home. Dodders and Bingy are draped haphazardly on the sofa across from Crowley and Aziraphale, their ties undone and sweater vests cast away long ago. Shoes off and toes wiggling happily. Bing’s blonde curls of hair are a mess, and Dodders is gazing at him, without much self-restraint or perhaps any self-awareness. 

Aziraphale, meanwhile, is reclined about as lazily as he ever is, which is to say, he’s sitting in a fairly normal position. 

Crowley has his legs stretched over Aziraphale’s lap, and he’s too drunk to give much of a fuck right now. 

“What time’s it?” Aziraphale slurs, rubbing his face.

Crowley winces at the grandfather clock that’s stood by the door, the room lit up by early evening light. “‘S five o’clock, angel.”

“Angel?” Bing smirks.

Crowley ignores him and so does Aziraphale. 

“It’s only _five?_” Dodders exclaims loudly, hand flying to his forehead, aghast. “How are we all quite so drunk?”

“Because Aziraphale kept pouring us drinks,” Bing says drily.

“Oh! Drinks,” Crowley remembers, waving a finger in the air. “I brought some. I brought drinks. They’re in- they’re in- I think I left it in the car.”

“You’re very kind. What did you bring, then, old chap? Don’t tease us.”

“Brought champagne,” he nods, feeling suddenly proud of himself for having remembered. “Found some champagne.”

“You mean you stole it from my pantry,” Aziraphale remarks, glowering at Crowley.

Crowley points an _aha!_ finger at him. “Yes. That’s what I did. I stole wine from your pantry, but, but, we’re here and you’re here and you’re drinking it too so s’fine.”

Aziraphale thinks about this for a long moment. “I suppose it is.”

“That’s- that’s awfully kind, Crowley, old sport,” Dodders says quietly. “Only- we don’t tend to drink alcohol that involves popping bottles. Loud banging noises and all that, and…”

Dodders and Bing look at each other, then look at Xenophon- who’s fallen asleep on the sofa behind them. 

Crowley feels himself sag against the cushions. And the whole room goes very quiet. He remembers that, as much as everyone here seems very silly, most of them would have fought in a war, too. And even Xenophon, the silliest member of them all, might have seen things that Crowley wouldn’t wish upon any human.

Even if he’s a demon, and he’s sort of meant to encourage things like war- he doesn’t like it much.

It’s this sort of thing that means nobody asks Crowley why he wears sunglasses all the time. Previously, people have asked him why, and he’s tempted people to drop the topic immediately. These days, people don’t even try. Because these days, and occasionally throughout previous centuries, people understand that one might do the strangest things to hide the things that have happened to them. To deal with them.

Besides, if people choose to believe that Crowley wears sunglasses because he is a war veteran who, for one reason or another, can’t bear to have anyone see his eyes- they’re closer to the truth than they think.

“Of course,” Crowley says quietly. 

“We can open the champagne outside,” Bing says to Dodders. “I’m jolly good at opening bottles. I’ll take it into the hedges and pop it there.”

“Last time you did that, you fell into the ditch and I had to fashion a rope out of bedsheets to get you back.”

“Absolutely not,” Bing retorts, drinking his Pimm's. Then, “That never happened, and no one shall believe you-”

At that moment, Jules leaps from the window seat and scampers to the door. 

Crowley looks at Aziraphale who says, “I think the girls have arrived.”

He doesn’t bother getting up, which he knows is the polite thing to do. He’s too comfortable, draped across the sofa, limbs hanging off edges like he’s back in his snake form. Legs on Aziraphale’s lap, and Aziraphale’s hands resting on his shins like that’s totally normal, which it is, it’s a very normal friendly gesture and Crowley shouldn’t think too hard about it or labour over what that might mean, what Aziraphale’s glance in his direction means, what the smile on his own face means, what any of it means.

Xenophon jumps out of his sleep like an alarm has gone off somewhere, rolling off the sofa and crashing onto the floor with a thud.

“You alright, Xeno?” Aziraphale calls.

“Ow,” he mumbles, face against the carpet. “Girls, I can hear the girls.”

And then the sound of heels against wooden floors makes Crowley crane his head over the arm of the sofa, looking at the world upside down. The first person he sees is a small, sweet looking girl with mousy hair and a pastel blue dress, a little shawl over her shoulders and a big, toothy smile.

“Hello, Lottie,” Aziraphale greets warmly, and Crowley can hear the drunk smile in his voice. “How’re you?”

“Hello, Aziraphale! Gosh, you’re positively pissed, aren’t you?”

“We all are,” Xenophon says from the floor.

Crowley watches the girl hang in the doorway, clutching her handbag and looking at Crowley with a big, silly grin. “You must be the famous Crowley? Aziraphale’s said so much about you. Is it true you’ve both been to Japan together?”

“_Lottie_,” Aziraphale moans. 

Crowley lifts his head- the world spins- and he looks at Aziraphale. “You’ve told them all _everything_, angel, what am I meant to talk about now? You’ve stolen all my topics of conversation, how’m I meant to talk to new people when you’ve hogged all the conversation topics?”

Aziraphale thwacks him on the shin, and Crowley snorts.

“Angel,” Lottie remarks quietly, and again, neither of them respond.

“Are Sal and Tilly here?” Xeno asks, who’s rolled onto his back and is starfished on the floor.

Lottie tucks a strand of curled hair behind her ear, sits on the piano stool daintily. Crowley shuts his eyes and listens to her honey-sweet, posh voice: “I’m afraid it’s only Tilly. Sal rather stood us up.”

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale says. And there’s something in his voice that tells Crowley he isn’t surprised. And perhaps, even, that he doesn’t like Sal.

“Yes, Tilly’s awfully upset, but I- well. Just between us-” She looks furtively about the room, as if some secret service might have bugged this little living room in Devon. Then, “Well, I think it’s rather for the better. Tilly’s been in love with the girl for so long, and she’s not given her more than a passing glance.”

“Never liked the way she drags Tilly along,” Aziraphale mutters. Eyes closed, lips pursed in disapproval as he shakes his head. He really is very drunk. 

“You didn’t hear that from me,” Lottie announces loudly, looking at the door. The others are chatting in the corridor. “Anyway, Crowley, so lovely to meet you! Gosh, you’re just so very suave, look at you.”

Crowley fumbles. He’s very drunk, too. “Mmm. Uh, I’m. Ngk.”

“Dodders tells me that you have a sister who looks just the same as you and has a wonderful voice, too.”

Crowley laughs. Which confuses both Lottie and Xeno, and Aziraphale smacks him on the shin again. “Yes,” he eventually replies. “Sister. Got a sister, a real sister.”

“She’s called Toni and he’s called Anthony, because their parents must have thought it very funny.”

Xeno says this, just as another woman walks into the room. Crowley sits up and tries to have a proper look, but the world won’t stop spinning so it’s difficult.

What he can see, is that she’s drop dead gorgeous. She’s fairly tall and she has dark brown hair, styled beautifully into a bob. She’s sporting a silk, green blouse with a low, risqué cut, and it’s tucked into high waisted trousers- black and chequered. Red lips pulled into a smile. And she has her arms spread out wide in welcome.

“My boys! You’ve all started drinking without me, you little shits!” She announces in a thick Birmingham accent.

“Hello, Tilly,” Aziraphale replies sweetly.

“Aziraphale, look at you, you’re absolutely pissed.”

“So everyone keeps saying.”

“Xeno, you silly bastard, what are you doing on the floor?”

Xeno simply waves, and says, “I’m quite happy down here.”

Jules steps into the room, looking a lot more relaxed now that Tilly has arrived, for some reason. A little bounce in his step as he takes Bingy’s spot on the sofa. Bingy and Dodders haven’t returned yet, for whatever reason- Crowley can hear them muttering to themselves next door.

“Tilly,” Lottie begins, laying a hand on the woman’s arm. “This is Crowley. He’s the one Aziraphale hasn’t stopped talking about since the very first day we met him.”

“Would everyone please _stop_,” Aziraphale moans quietly.

Tilly looks down at Crowley. He sees her eyes scan him, measuring him. And then she nods, smiles, extends a confident hand. “Hiya, I’m a lesbian, how are you?”

He takes the hand, shakes it sinuously, and answers each element of her introduction in order. “Hi, I don’t fit into any boxes, an’ I’m drunk as a skunk.”

Xeno giggles. Aziraphale pats him affectionately on the leg. Crowley stares at the action and doesn’t have any shame in doing so.

“Yes, I thought I’d like you,” Tilly announces. “Lovely to meet you Crowley.”

“Charmed,” he drawls.

Tilly, Lottie and Xeno all sit on Jules’ sofa and have a catch up. Aziraphale gives Crowley a look. A puzzled, drunk frown.

“Charmed?” he asks.

“Yeah, I’m trying it out.”

Aziraphale pokes out his lower lip in concession and nods.

“When’s the last time we were drunk like this around other people?”

Aziraphale seems to consider this. “A long, long time,” he says slowly, seriously.

Crowley snorts. “I think- hang on, I just had it. I was about to say something an’ I forgot what it was completely. Fuck’s sake.”

“When’s-” Aziraphale hiccups. “When’s the last time we were drunk with other people.”

“Yeah- yeah, I think it was at that ball we went to. Back in 1811. All those fancy dresses, so much _tension_\- ugh, Regency Period. Everyone fancied each other but none of them got on with it, did they? There was all this- _tension._. ‘S all just dancing and pretending. And top hats. And horses. Don’t like horses-”

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale’s eyes brighten a little. “Yes, we were in Bath. We went to that ball. I had to dance with that frightful woman.”

“Yep.”

“And you didn’t ask anyone to dance, so all the ladies were very unimpressed with you. Terribly rude.”

“I wasn’t interested in any of them.”

“Crowley, _really_, then why bother coming.”

“Cause of you. Obviously.”

Aziraphale gazes at him. Then, softly, “Really?”

Panic would have set in by now, if he were sober. Instead, he ploughs on. “Yeah. Obviously, what, why would I- I mean, why would I even go to a ball otherwise? You were going, I was there for you.”

The moment hangs between them. The others chatter obliviously, and Crowley watches as Aziraphale stares, hands resting on Crowley’s ankles.

“Really?”

“Yes, really. Stop saying- it’s not a big deal, you don’t need to look at me like that.”

Aziraphale’s expression hardens. “Look at you like what? I can look at you how I like.”

That makes Crowley pause. Aziraphale’s now sporting his sulky face, sinking into his seat so his neck folds and his legs are splayed out in front of him. It makes him huff a quiet laugh.

“Yeah. Alright, angel.”

Aziraphale looks away. And now, Crowley wishes he had been sober for this conversation; because he thinks he’s just missed something. He thinks he might have just pissed off Aziraphale quite a bit, like he might have just put his foot in it. And he doesn’t know how.

“I’ll go get the champagne from the car. I’ll go pop it outside,” Crowley says carefully. “Miracle it so. So it’s not loud.”

Aziraphale raises his brows- the facial equivalent of a shrug that says, _see if I care_.

Crowley stares at him, then rolls his eyes and sighs, swinging his feet off Aziraphale’s lap. If Aziraphale’s going to be like _that_. 

“Fine,” he adds with a mocking snarl.

At first, he goes the wrong way. Then, he remembers which side of the house the front door is, and retraces his steps. He passes the dining room, where he hears Dodders and Bingy talking fervently- possibly arguing, Crowley isn’t sure. And whilst it’s in his nature to be curious, whilst he likes a good eavesdrop, he thinks he ought to leave them to it- largely because he’s prioritising booze right now. So he goes to the car, looks in the footwell of the back seats and finds two bottles of Bollinger, miracles the corks out of them silently. Sways drunkenly on the spot when he turns around and makes his way back to the house. It’s then that he realises how much darker it’s gotten, and therefore how long they’ve been drinking.

He’s about to return to the living room, when he thinks that maybe the girls will need a glass each- some people don’t enjoy drinking wine straight from the bottle as much as him or Aziraphale. Some people have higher standards. So he heads to the kitchen, opens all the cupboards one by one to search for champagne glasses.

“Would you like a hand?”

Crowley spins round, almost trips, recovers and leans against the kitchen counter. Aziraphale doesn’t make any comment- he’s used to how clumsy he is by now- simply taking the bottles and placing them on the counter.

“Cheers.”

“Sorry, by the way. About just now.”

Crowley watches with intense interest as Aziraphale opens the cupboard he’d intended to try next and removes a handful of glasses. Everyone next door laughs at something he can’t hear. And Crowley pays absolutely no attention to what the joke could have been, because Aziraphale’s in here, with him, instead. And he’s laying out each glass in a line with a pinched little frown on his face, shoulders tense.

“…Alright,” he manages uncertainly.

“You’ve made yourself come to a lot of boring events because of me,” Aziraphale continues, catching Crowley by surprise. He’s nodding decisively as he speaks, arranging the glasses and pouring the champagne- not very accurately, as some of it dribbles onto the counter. “Balls and parties in Devon and all sorts. And I do appreciate that. Is all.”

“Alright,” Crowley replies stiffly. He feels the usual defensiveness flare, the usual feeling of guilt and denial. A mixture of complicated feelings that he’s never been prepared to unpack. 

“And- I appreciate you coming to this, even though I know you’re probably hating every second.”

He isn’t, actually, which surprises even him, but he decides not to mention it. He just shrugs, arms going everywhere. 

“And also,” Aziraphale suddenly turns to him fervently, eyes bright. “That you’re trying so hard not to kill any of them.”

“Well. I did make Dodders fall over earlier. You weren’t there to see it, but it was very satisfying. Just ‘cause I felt he deserved it. He didn’t die, though, you’re right, no deaths yet-”

“And I appreciate that- that,” Aziraphale pauses, sighs, looks down at his hands nervously. “That you’re always here for me, even when I don’t ask.”

His mouth goes dry and the room goes too quiet. He can hear his breath too loudly in his ear and he sways. He isn’t enjoying this conversation, but he’s, surprisingly, not hating it either. Rather, it’s just _confusing._

“‘S’alright, angel-”

“So I’d appreciate it if you’d _let me thank you!_”

Aziraphale declares this brusquely and marches out of the kitchen again without giving Crowley a chance to respond, carrying three glasses and taking them through. He watches the angel disappear and join the party next door.

“That was a thing,” he mutters to himself. 

And it was a very strange thing. Aziraphale is rarely explicit in his thanks, and whenever he has been, Crowley has always shut it down. For various complicated reasons which, as previously stated, he’s never felt prepared to unpack. And usually they’ll leave it there- showing appreciation through buying each other lunch, or bringing a bottle of wine over from time to time. Now, though- today, it had been different. Aziraphale had been determined. He’d been angry at Crowley for not letting him thank him, and Crowley had been so taken aback by this that he’d simply let him be, not knowing how to argue back. 

“Yeah. That was,” Crowley swallows, wetting his dry throat. “A thing.”

When he eventually gathers the other champagne glasses and returns to the party, he’s greeted by a roar of welcome- Bingy, Xeno and Jules taking a glass each and leaving one for himself. 

Lottie hangs off Dodders’ arm, taking a sip with her other hand. And then, on seeing him, she cries, “Crowley! We were just talking about you!”

Crowley glares at Aziraphale, who’s ignoring him entirely. He’s staring out of the window, champagne flute in hand.

“Oh, really, now?” He drawls. 

Dodders nods in enthusiastic synchronicity with Lottie. _God, these two are practically the same fucking person. Creepy_, Crowley thinks. “Yes,” Dodders adds, “And we were just thinking that all we needed to get this party well and truly started was some music, and my parents’ gramophone is just terrible, and-”

“Oh, go on, play us some music, old chap!” Xenophon exclaims.

“Yes!”

“Oh how wonderful- please do play, Crowley!”

“That would be so jolly- if you’re anything like your sister-”

Aziraphale is still stood by the window, looking far too pensive- but now at least, his eyes are on Crowley, inquisitive brows raised. A strange expression. 

Crowley opens his mouth to respond, and then he feels a pair of hands pushing him by his back. Looking around the room, by process of elimination, he’s guessing it’s Jules that’s guiding him to the piano stool.

“Er- well- I’m, it’s, ah- for fuck’s sake, would you _stop_-”

“Don’t say you have stage fright, surely not after all those drinks,” Bing laughs. “Or are you afraid you’ll forget how to play? Alcohol induced amnesia?”

“Yes, that,” Crowley slurs. 

He stares down at the keys, sees them all blur into one. And it’s only because he’s so drunk that he turns round clumsily in his seat, searching for Aziraphale. Needing to know he’s there, needing to know he’s in the room with him, not abandoned to all these strangers. And Crowley finds him standing a little distance away, holding the glass in his hands delicately, watching with a soft expression. Still, a strange expression. 

“Aziraphale?” Crowley asks, though he doesn’t know why.

The angel gives an encouraging nod and a small smile. Unblinking. “Go on, my dear.”

And it’s any wonder that Crowley can find the keyboard at all, but he does. His hands fly to the keys and whilst he can’t really see each individual one very clearly, his hands remember how to play. Muscle memory leads him, and without even thinking, he begins to play. Hands running down the piano as easily as breathing. 

He’s never wanted to play in front of Aziraphale before. He’d never even intended to tell him he _could_ play. He’d never felt safe with Aziraphale knowing too much about him; seeing too much of him; never been brave enough to expose himself that much. But as the centuries go by, Crowley finds himself opening up to the angel as if he’d never made the promise to himself that he wouldn’t. Yes, as the centuries have gone by, he’s torn up all the rules he’d mentally written down, one by one. And he does so without any consideration. Without referring to any internal council, without any deliberation or conflict. He simply does. 

And so he plays. Thoughtlessly. He plays a jazz song that he somehow remembers all the lyrics to but not the name of. The people around him cheer and whoop and dance and mimic band instruments, Dodders miming a trumpet and making _wah-wah_ noises, Jules playing the drums on an upturned bin. Crowley starts a call-and-response, singing ‘_and a hidey-hidey-hi_’ with the rest of the party answering ‘_and a hidey-hidey-hi_’. 

He puts all the gusto he can into it, forgetting about giving a shit or trying to look cool. Trying to look cool is something he puts so much effort into, until he forgets and thus undoes all his hard work. So he sings. He takes it very seriously. Everyone has great fun. He’s fed champagne through a straw by Tilly. 

And Aziraphale watches.

Aziraphale leans an elbow against the top of the piano as Crowley plays. His chin rests in one hand and he watches dreamily. And Crowley is sober enough at least to see that- to see the hazy look in his eyes and pink in his cheeks that’s down to more than just alcohol. The top button of his shirt undone and his bow tie cast away. His white hair messy, and a soft, dopey smile. 

And sometimes he’ll sing along too. Sometimes, he’ll sing along with Crowley and the others with great enthusiasm and cheer. He might even dance in little circles, linking arm and arm with Bingy. But when he isn’t, he’s leaning against the piano by Crowley’s side, listening. Watching.

And if Crowley makes a few slip ups as he plays, he’ll put it down to his drunkenness, rather than self-consciousness. He’ll blame the alcohol rather than the burning self-awareness that’s scorching his chest and sending his heart racing, making his hands shake and turning him into a puddle of goo like he’s had a bucket of holy water over his head. If he makes mistakes because Aziraphale’s watching, _really watching_, then the angel doesn’t make any remark. 

After that, the night is a blur. He remembers little of it the next morning, and even as it’s happening it’s _barely_ happening, barely feels real, because he’s been fed such an incredible amount of booze. 

And because he can’t quite _believe_ the closeness of it all; the closeness of Aziraphale there on the piano stool with him now, singing along with a desperately emotional hand clutching his chest. He can’t believe the feeling of Aziraphale taking his hand and spinning him around in the garden in the middle of the night, Crowley tripping over a croquet hoop and Aziraphale giggling stupidly at him.

He can’t quite believe the way Aziraphale stays by his side solidly for the rest of the night, arm bumping into his. He can’t quite believe that Crowley is here with him, that Aziraphale had invited him here, that he’d wanted him there and that he’s chosen _his_ company out of the rest of them. Even though Aziraphale had meant to come down here for the very purpose of having a weekend away with the others. 

And he can’t quite believe it when everyone starts to rip off their clothes and jump into the pool- which Crowley hadn’t even realised was there till now- the moon dancing on the water and bleaching their bodies silver. 

He holds the neck of the champagne bottle tightly in his hand like an anchor. He feels his mouth hang open as his mind shuts down, wondering what to do next. Standing at the edge of the pool and hesitating.

And what he can believe least of all is the following burst of _courage_ he experiences, grabbing Aziraphale by the waist and pulling them both into the pool. 

Falling together.

And he remembers the taste of chlorine in his mouth and the stinging in his eyes; the bubbles of people kicking in the water and the champagne bottle sinking to the bottom. And then Aziraphale, watching him under water with white hair floating, his image blurry. And then the two of them emerging from the water again, Crowley spitting water in the air and Aziraphale splashing more in his face, and Crowley complaining loudly and calling him a _fucking bastard._

Aziraphale treading water in front of him, clothes on. White shirt billowing on the surface. Expression slack and awe-struck. Bathed in silvery light. Eyes on Crowley, and a look that’s somehow both gentle and intense. A look Crowley doesn’t understand. 

“You came all the way down here for me,” Aziraphale says quietly.

And then an uncharacteristically confident hand outstretched, tucking a strand of Crowley’s wet hair behind his ear. 

And Crowley stares. Drunk, shameless, he stares. Because Aziraphale looks like a star. He shines. And none of it feels real. Real life isn’t perfect like this.

Crowley remembers nothing more about that night; he remembers nothing about how they all get back inside, remembers none of the final conversation, doesn’t remember how he and Aziraphale part ways before going to bed. 

But he remembers that moment in the swimming pool. Crowley will remember that moment in the swimming pool until the end of time itself.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are some good Jeeves and Wooster style shenanigans in this. and the next chapter, too.
> 
> **Blease check out [this adorable fanart of Crowley playing the piano!!](https://pamich-stuff.tumblr.com/post/186922852829/a-quick-warm-up-sketch-inspired-by-that-20s-fic)**

Attendance at breakfast the next morning is sparse. Aziraphale and Jules are the only two who turn up.

Aziraphale is actually quite pleased about this. It means that he can sit in the morning room in peace- perched on the window seat and letting the pale light illuminate his book, slowly nursing a pot of tea. Outside, the birds flutter to the lawn and wash their feathers in the dew. A butterfly lands on the rose bush just beyond the window pane. And the sky is completely clear- it looks like it will be a hot, sunny day. It’s the first moment of real silence that Aziraphale has experienced in a while, and it’s honestly very nice. 

Jules, meanwhile, is working through a literal mound of scrambled eggs. Aziraphale occasionally looks up from his book- one that he’d borrowed from the Doddering-Heights library- to survey his progress. It impresses even him, an angel of immense appetite, to see how much Julian Knackerton can eat. 

“I can cook some bacon, too,” Aziraphale suggests. He’d quickly volunteered himself as chef when the role made itself apparent.

Jules, however, shakes his head and happily continues to shovel his eggs into his mouth. Aziraphale returns to his book. 

He’s re-reading some Virgil- he’s always liked the _Aeneid,_ even if Crowley argued quite fervently that Homer’s _Odyssey_ is far better. Because Aziraphale doesn’t live his life by what Crowley says or does or wants, even if he finds himself tempted in that direction.

Tempted, perhaps, isn’t the right word- Aziraphale puts down his book and sighs, gazing out the window as he thinks of this- no, _tempted_ implies that Crowley actively tries to persuade him. Aziraphale has never felt influenced by Crowley in that way. To the point that Aziraphale will forget that he’s a demon. Forget that he has been put on this Earth with the sole purpose of tempting. For Aziraphale, rather than tempting, it’s more like Crowley will leave little bread crumbs of moments and words and gestures that make him fall just _that bit_ more in love with him. He probably doesn’t even realise he’s leaving them, but Aziraphale will follow those bread crumbs to the edge of the world. 

If there’s two things he likes an unnatural amount, it’s bread, and Crowley.

Aziraphale leans his head against the pane of glass and sighs despondently. The sun pours through the window and he winces till he ends up just closing his eyes and basking. 

And he wonders whether Crowley will wake up today. Hangovers aren’t something that either of them have ever really experienced, but after a heavy night of drinking Crowley is wont to having an extra long sleep. He’s wont to having an extra long sleep regardless of what happened the night before, actually. And so Aziraphale looks outside, watches the little finches fluff up their feathers and dance on the garden table. 

It brings back memories of last night. They’d all run around in a drunken stupor in the garden. Feeling wild and free and almost Bacchic in the moonlight, they’d danced and behaved like fools. And Aziraphale feels a familiar pang of embarrassment as he considers what an idiot he must have acted- he doesn’t remember the specifics, and he hopes no one will remind him. Then there’s a subsequent ripple of panic- his heart strings plucking a series of emotions. Anxiety; excitement; alarm; regret; hope. 

Crowley had pushed him into the swimming pool. They’d fallen together- ever since they’d met at Eden, they had fallen headlong into nonsense and danger and calamity, together. And last night they’d tumbled into that swimming pool in the middle of the night, Crowley’s arms around his waist and his hair stuck to his face and glasses slipping down his nose and the moon seeping into his skin, looking no less angelic than Aziraphale himself. 

He remembers pushing his hair out of Crowley’s face and saying something foolish. He remembers them treading water and staring at each other, and he remembers wondering why Crowley hadn’t teased him, hadn’t mocked or snarled at him to shut up. 

Aziraphale lets out a long, stress releasing breath. And he goes to find the library for something else to read. The _Aeneid_ just isn’t doing it for him this morning. 

He and Jules wave a silent goodbye to each other, and he walks through the sleepy house. Dust particles dancing in the morning light, the wooden floors creaking. At this time of day, without all the people running around with half drunk bottles of champagne, Crossley Hall feels like a fairy tale. Filled with magic and anticipation. And, according to Aziraphale’s angelic senses, love. A huge amount of love that has settled here quite recently, by his understanding- a love that has brought the place to life, like a forest. 

He pushes against the great, oak door to the library and tries to quieten it’s creaking through a small miracle. 

The library smells like time and stories and dust. He pauses in the doorway and takes a slow breath, closing his eyes and absorbing the stillness. It’s refreshing. Even though the air is stale in here, it’s refreshing to be somewhere quiet and old. Aziraphale finds a book about local wildlife, finds a seat in a leather chair, and settles into the atmosphere of the library as if in a bath.

Who knows how much time has passed by the time he hears the others shifting upstairs. They’ve come to inspect breakfast, and Aziraphale hasn’t cooked enough for all of them since they hadn’t been awake, but it sounds as if Lottie is taking over chef duty. She announces this loud enough from the corridor that Aziraphale can hear whilst he reads.

He’s reading about the distinctive colourings of the Grey Wagtail when the door creaks open.

“Good morning, my dear. I didn’t expect you to be up for a while.”

Crowley hovers, half his body hidden by the door. “I would’ve slept longer.” There’s no _except_ or _but_; he doesn’t explain any further. “You going to the beach with the others?”

Aziraphale takes a deep breath and looks out of the window. Glorious weather. “Oh, I suppose so.” 

There’s a diffident sniff, then, “‘Spose I’ll come along too.”

“You could always stay here and nap. Though, of course, we would miss you.”

Crowley kicks the floor like a sulky teenager. “Nah. Better I come along in case, I dunno. You all- drown, or something.”

“You have so little faith in me,” he retorts.

“Aziraphale,” he sighs, tipping his head back wearily. “You’re probably the most irresponsible person I’ve ever met. So, forgive me for being overly cautious.”

“I-” Aziraphale scoffs. “I’m _sorry?_”

“Pompeii,” Crowley starts to count from his fingers, “You went to find a bread recipe minutes before the whole place turned to ash-”

“That was important. It was… it was good bread.”

“The plague-”

“Which one?”

“Uh- that’s my point exactly, all of them. Then there’s the Great Fire of London-”

“That was _actually_ important, I’d been ordered by Heaven to go save someone- are you doing this chronologically?”

“No, we’d be here all day. The Gunpowder Plot-”

“Oh, please, it’s not my fault no one told me what Guy Fawkes was planning.”

“The Bastille, let’s not forget the Bastille-”

“The crepes, Crowley, the _crepes_. And how was I to know the French were going quite so mad with the guillotine?”

There’s a strange smile on Crowley’s face as he lingers in the doorway, finishes counting on his fingers and lets his hands drop to his sides. And then, he heaves a big sigh, shoulders rising to his ears and his chin almost pressed against his chest. “Alright. I’ll see you in a bit then.”

He watches Crowley slip away- closing the door carefully behind him. Aziraphale’s gaze remains on the door for a few more moments as he imagines Crowley sauntering through the house and making snide comments to the others. And then he returns to his book, rereading the same paragraph about the Grey Wagtail several times and learning absolutely nothing about them.

***

The sky has turned grey. They’re all sat in the lounge, looking out of the window, beach bags packed and not going anywhere very quickly. 

“I think we should go tomorrow instead,” Lottie announces, sat close beside Tilly, who nods emphatically in agreement. “I don’t want to run around in my nice new costume if it’s going to rain.”

“Lottie, this is England. Everything’s always on the verge of raining.”

“No, she’s right, it isn’t very sensible.”

“Has it occurred to you that swimming costumes are meant to get wet, Lottie?”

Aziraphale sits on the window seat beside Xeno, whose face is pressed against the glass miserably. 

“Well, I don’t think this should stop us.”

Dodders says this, stands up from the piano stool, marches to the window, and plants his hands on his hips authoritatively. Aziraphale sighs quietly to himself. He thought he’d kept a relatively neutral expression, but judging by the way Tilly bursts out laughing at his response, he might have rolled his eyes without realising. 

“I think,” Dodders ploughs on, oblivious, “We should all go for a walk. A jolly walk, before the rain hits. _If_ any rain hits, that is.”

Aziraphale looks over to Crowley, who’s grimacing as he peers through the window. “It… looks a bit rubbish. I’m not sure you wanna risk it.”

And that makes him wonder to himself. Because Crowley’s usually the type to encourage annoying situations like getting caught in the rain- especially with people like Dodders, who irritate him. Up till now, Aziraphale’s witnessed one or two practical jokes that no one other than him has been able to identify as demonic work- he’s seen Dodders slip on a miraculous banana peel, which Crowley had observed with a wry smile; he’s seen him get brown sauce all over his suit at supper, when it had unexpectedly exploded in his face; Crowley’d consistently miracled the gramophone to stop working earlier, forcing Bingy to crawl on his hands and knees and inspect the wiring; and then he’d placed _another_ banana peel on the floor, so that Bingy and Dodders crashed into each other, landing in one another’s arms like lovers. 

Crowley’s sense of humour isn’t especially sophisticated. His demonic acts never very demonic. He’d still earned one or two disapproving glares from Aziraphale, though. 

So, it’s all the more baffling now that he’s actively discouraging Dodders from getting stuck in the rain- it would make an excellent prank. Perhaps Crowley’s warming up to them after all.

“I think we should go for it,” Tilly says. She pats Lottie affectionately on the knee (_Ah,_ Aziraphale remarks to himself) and stands beside Dodders. “Let’s go for a muddy walk.”

“I didn’t bring any wellies,” Xeno mutters, face still pressed against the glass.

“Not to worry, old chap, we have hundreds and hundreds of pairs, and some spares in the stables, too.”

And that’s how they end up abandoning their beach gear and going for a walk. Aziraphale opted to change out of his white linen suit for something more suitable for an amble through fields- he’s in dark green tweed now, a cream sweater vest, and a little bow tie, of course. A very rural look, not something he usually wears. He’s even wearing a flat cap, just to top it all off.

They all head out together, clad in borrowed welly boots that have mud stuck on the soles from their last outing. Crowley walks up ahead with Tilly- the former listening and occasionally speaking in his usual, drawling tones; the latter chatting with great enthusiasm about gin. Dodders and Lottie talk in low, serious voices, walking far ahead. And Bing talks to Xeno about something with great authority, whilst Xeno gazes at him. 

That leaves Aziraphale with Jules- possibly, because the both of them appreciate some quiet, and have come to find that only with each other. 

They sky overhead doesn’t look like it’ll rain any time soon, but there is a heaviness in the air. It’s too warm, but not warm enough to remove jackets or roll up sleeves. They start off walking through Frogmore village towards the sea, edging up a slight incline until they reach the top of the hill, and can see the estate in the near distance, poking over cedar trees. They continue along the silent road, the sound of horse hooves echoing nearby.

Dodders and Lottie lead the way into an empty field, the view undulating towards the ocean horizon. The breeze has picked up here by the shore, and Aziraphale feels a healthy burn in his chest and sting to his cheeks. He walks in happy silence alongside Jules, until-

“Jules?”

“Yes?”

Aziraphale looks at his friends walking ahead. Tilly has migrated towards Lottie, Dodders towards Bing, and Crowley looks like he’s trying to escape Xeno as best he can- unfortunately for him, Xeno has cornered him beside a fence. 

“Have you noticed this strange little love triangle between Dodders, Bing and Xeno? And Lottie? And Tilly?” He supplements awkwardly.

Jules sighs. It’s a weary sound, not one he usually hears from Jules. “Yes.”

“Right. You’re rather more observant than the rest of us, I thought you might have.”

Their footsteps sink into the soft ground as they walk side by side. Jules sighs again. “Bingy loves Dodders and Dodders loves Bingy. But Xeno also loves Bingy. Lottie and Dodders are pretending they’re in love but they’re not, whilst Lottie and Tilly do love each other.”

Aziraphale sighs, now. “Oh, Lord.”

“Yes.”

“This love business is complicated,” he says, feeling silly saying it. After the millennia he’s spent watching love unfold and wither and blossom all around the world, it feels like a huge understatement.

“It’s not just that. They overcomplicate it themselves.”

“They do indeed.”

They fall back into silence. It’s interesting to hear Jules’ perspective. Aziraphale has been harbouring these thoughts for a while about his friends, but has kept them to himself, thinking that maybe it was only him picking up on it all. But if there’s anyone else who would notice these things, it would be Jules.

“You smile differently around him.”

Aziraphale watches his feet as they walk, frowns at the clods of mud that gather round his boots. “I’m sorry?”

“Crowley. You smile differently around him.”

He almost comes to an abrupt stop. Instead, he slows just a little in surprise. Meanwhile, his mind feels like it’s sped up, like a fairground carousel gone rogue. 

“I… I’m not sure what to say to that.”

“It’s not that you don’t smile with us,” he explains simply, wincing against the wind, dark blonde hair flicking about. “It’s just that you’re different with Crowley. You’re more- you.”

His mind feels like it’s vibrating. This conversation is entirely unexpected. He’s having trouble settling into it, like he’s watching it from somewhere else. 

“I see,” he says, not knowing what else to say.

“Try not to worry about it too much,” Jules continues easily. “It’s a good thing. It’s a nice thing to be yourself with someone.”

“I suppose that’s true,” he replies weakly. 

They reach the crest of a small hill, pause at the top and look out over the sea. It’s grey. The waves are huge. Aziraphale remembers when this place was first created. 

“Is it so obvious?” He asks quietly, voice almost drowned by the wind. 

They stand side by side, hands in pockets and breeze picking up the edges of their jackets. A seagull screams overhead, flapping against the wind.

“Maybe not to everyone,” Jules says, eventually. “I think most of us have noticed. I think most of us wish we had someone like that. Except for Dodders and Bingy. Sometimes, you two remind me of them.”

Just as Aziraphale’s finding his feet with this conversation, just as he’s controlling the speed of his thoughts, that comment brings on a new wave of suprise. And the mental carousel spins at an uncontrollable speed once again.

“I thought they reminded me of someone,” Aziraphale laughs. It’s not an especially happy sound; it sounds more like he’s catatonic. 

“You’re worrying too much about it. It’s good to love people.”

He presses his lips into a pursed smile. Trust Jules to put things in the simplest terms. “You’re right. You know, I’ve always considered myself an expert with these things, but- when it comes to Crowley…”

They both turn and look for him simultaneously. He’s having a surprisingly sincere conversation with Xeno as they walk, who’s playing with the hem of his jacket. It looks like quite the heart-to-heart. The unfamiliar image of Crowley in welly boots makes the scene look a little less serious, a tiny bit more endearing. 

“... It’s different,” he finishes. “We’ve. Well, we’ve known each other for a long time.”

“I can’t say I understand,” Jules replies steadily. “But it will be alright. Just be honest with yourself.”

“You’re not going to say I should be honest with him? Tell him how I feel, make a fool of myself-?”

“No, I mean be honest with yourself,” Jules interrupts. “You hide a lot from us, Aziraphale, don’t hide things from yourself, too.”

And that- that hurts. It hurts because he’s absolutely right, he’s never allowed himself to see what he doesn’t want to see. Whether it’s to do with Heaven, Hell, ineffable plans or his own feelings. He knows this about himself, but typically, he’s ignored it- because he doesn’t want to admit it. It’s a vicious little circle. A vicious little halo of denial.

“You’re far too observant, Jules.” He casts his friend a smile.

He smiles back, open and unabashed. 

They both continue walking. And strangely, Aziraphale feels better. Feels something lift off him. Feels lighter, like the breeze could carry him away. 

***

They make a large loop around the neighbouring fields, Dodders narrowly avoiding being run over by a herd of sheep. (Aziraphale gives Crowley a reprimand glare, and the demon shrugs, far too innocently.) As they emerge from the fields, kicking their boots against the roads to remove the mud, they find themselves in an entirely different village. More than that, they find themselves walking right into the midst of a village fete. It’s Dodders, as ever, who leads the way- marching welly boots first right into the village green, where the people are gathered and setting up stalls. The rest of the gang follow, largely because it’s entertaining to see Dodders blunder into situations like this. 

The village green has a cricket pavilion at the far edge, and little white bollards around the perimeter that have bunting draped between them. Dodders is currently strolling beneath the _WELCOME TO CHILLINGTON FETE!_ sign, which flaps jauntily in the wind. There’s a brass band setting itself up, and beyond that, cake stalls and bring-and-buy sales, a miniature cricket match at the edge of the green, some games. Aziraphale can spot hook-a-duck and ring toss. 

He hangs at the back of the group and looks upon the scene, feeling thoroughly enlivened by how much love and joy there is here. A village of good people, sharing in some innocent fun. 

“You must be loving this.”

Aziraphale turns to find Crowley hovering by his side, hands behind his back and shoulders hunched. And his conversation with Jules suddenly rushes back to him- he clears his throat awkwardly. 

“It’s nice,” he says stupidly.

Crowley wrinkles his nose.

“At least it’s not in a churchyard,” Aziraphale adds lightly. “Village fetes can be, you know. And you would’ve had to have sat outside and watched sadly.”

“Not sadly,” Crowley replies, still grimacing. He casts his gaze about the scene, of children throwing coconuts and old women exchanging victoria sponge recipes. “This is. Eugh.”

Aziraphale ignores him, taking a deep breath and absorbing the jovial atmosphere. The brass band starts up, playing a jolly tune. “I reckon we should go inspect, don’t you?”

They exchange looks, Aziraphale smiling at him expectantly. He watches Crowley’s expression shift from disgruntled to weary. And so Crowley sighs, nods his head in concession, and bows- extending an arm towards the entrance for Aziraphale to lead the way. 

“After you,” he says mockingly. 

Aziraphale does as he’s asked, feeling a little proud of himself.

They stop off first at the bring-and-buy sale, looking through all the useless brick-a-brack, amongst which are some fairly nice antiques. There are a few silver snuff boxes which attract his attention, some with engravings- names, initials, flowers, dates. And there are a few books, most of which are so old they’re falling apart. Some that have been well loved, and Aziraphale strokes their spines affectionately. There’s barely a breeze here, so, luckily, none of it has been blown away; some of it, Aziraphale thinks it would be better if had been. Like the horribly tacky lampshade that Crowley is eyeing curiously. Or the terrible hat that the woman next to him is trying on; Crowley notices this too, shares a judgemental look with him, and it almost makes him burst out laughing. 

And after some perusing, Crowley sidles close up to him and says _May I tempt you to some cake?_ to which Aziraphale wiggles happily and replies, _It would be rude not to._

The cake stall is extensive. Far more extensive than any Aziraphale has seen before, and he notes, with amusement, that most of them are victoria sponges. There’s an air of competition between the old women who attend the stall, and they watch Aziraphale and Crowley closely, as if waiting for them to announce which is the best. Aziraphale isn't sure he can cope with the pressure, so he simply buys a piece of carrot cake and makes his escape, Crowley following close behind and sniggering at him. 

“Coward,” he mutters through a smirk.

“Not at all, I think if I’d stayed and judged I’d’ve caused a war.”

They’ve lost the others by now, although neither one has noticed. Aziraphale has forgotten entirely that he came here with anyone else- is swept away by the moment. Being at a village fete, of all places, with Crowley. He eats as they walk, Crowley walking just behind him with his hands behind his back- then by Aziraphale’s side, then out at front. Orbiting him and surveying their surroundings like a king’s guard. 

“Ah, that’s more like it.”

Aziraphale had been watching the brass band play- now, turns towards Crowley, who’s sauntering over to the coconut-throw. Four little podiums with cans on, waiting to be knocked off; a line of stuffed bears as prizes. Three children hang by the stand, looking wretched and whispering to each other. The man running the thing looks positively alarmed by the purposeful way Crowley approaches. Picking up a coconut and throwing it in the air, catching it, throwing it again with a dangerous grin.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale warns in a low voice.

He pouts at him, all innocence, before turning to the stall and lobbing a coconut without warning- knocking the first can off its pedestal easily. 

The children gasp in awe. Aziraphale tuts.

“Really,” he mutters. “Such a show off.”

The man at the stall stares at the can, jaw dropped. “You’re not! How’d you-?”

Crowley leans in close, and suddenly Aziraphale feels like he has to stay stock still, stop breathing entirely or he’ll explode from excitement. _Get a grip,_ he reminds himself.

“See, angel?” he remarks for only them to hear, “These people are scam artists. They deserve it. Need someone to come and take them down a notch once in a while.”

Aziraphale watches the stall handler inspecting the pedestal, poking it and eyeing the top. 

“Oh,” he says, aghast. “It was glued on there, wasn’t it?”

“Mhm,” Crowley replies through a pursed smile. Then, more loudly, “Shall we try one more?”

The stall handler’s head snaps towards him. “What? Uh, I don’t think that’s-”

“Heads up!”

Crowley launches a second coconut, and the can flies clean off, as if hit by a bullet. The man stumbles backwards, looking frankly horrified by this stranger’s apparently herculean strength. Meanwhile, Crowley crosses his arms and grins mischievously at him. The children are cheering. Aziraphale is trying not to rub his face wearily. He’s also trying not to be impressed. Or swept off his feet. 

“We’ll take whatever that thing is,” Crowley points to the line of prizes. 

The man begrudgingly removes a stuffed teddy bear from the wall of prizes- notably, no one else seems to have won any, because the wall is full of them. He hands Crowley the bear, and Crowley looks down at it like he doesn’t know what to do with it. 

Then, he turns to the children, hands it to them. One of them screams in delight. The other two are staring at Crowley like he’s God. 

“Thank you, sir!”

“Thank you!”

“Thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you-”

“You really showed him!”

“You’re _amazing_!”

“Run along now,” Crowley says gently, though there is a tacit warning in there. 

The children pick up on it, though their smiles don’t falter. They sprint away, excitement making them almost trip over as they go and find someone to tell this story to. The story of the strange, red haired man who absolutely destroyed the coconut stand. 

“Crowley, that was ni-” Aziraphale starts, then stops when he receives a warning glare from Crowley. “...very demonic of you indeed.”

He only continues to glare. Then turns to the stand again. “If I’m right- and I think I am- I’ve earned two prizes.”

There’s that grin again. Toothy and only slightly threatening. The stall handler slumps and sighs, conceding to Crowley’s request and picking out another teddy bear. He hands it to Crowley, who looks down at it with much the same blank-faced confusion, then hands it to Aziraphale.

“Here.”

Aziraphale takes it. It’s soft. Two black, beaded eyes stare distantly at him. And although he has no idea what to do with a teddy bear, this stuffed toy signifies something so much more. So he stares at it for a long moment, then looks up at Crowley, whose jaw is ticking as he clenches his teeth. 

“Oh. Crowley,” he breathes. “You… that’s very kind.”

“No it’s not,” he snarls, pointing a finger at Aziraphale. Unfortunately for Crowley, he’s never been intimidated by him. “I’m dismantling fun, innocent fairground games and besmirching this good man’s name. Not kind, _evil_.”

“Of course. Except- it seems more like you caught a crook and won me a stuffed bear,” he replies.

Crowley surveys the smirk on Aziraphale’s lips, and growls in irritation. Shoves his hands in his pockets and walks back into the crowd of the fete. 

“I wonder if anyone really could have won that without a miracle,” Aziraphale muses as they walk through the fete aimlessly. He wraps his arms around the bear and presses it to his chest. 

“No chance. Those people are bastards, make it damn near impossible.”

And Aziraphale feels some silly bickering afoot. It makes him smirk to himself. “Mmm,” he remarks noncommittally. 

Crowley picks up on it immediately, gives him a look. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“No, what?”

“Nothing, really,” he says innocently, “Only, I wonder if you couldn’t have done it without a miracle. You drive cars with miracles, you dress with miracles, win coconut throws with miracles.”

“What’s your point,” he growls.

Aziraphale shrugs lightly, lips pinched, pretending that he doesn’t want to say any more.

“I can _do things without miracles_,” Crowley retorts. 

“I’m sure you can.”

“And what’s stopping you, angel? Eh? You wouldn’t last a day without miracling this or that.”

“I’m sure I’d be able to handle it-”

And then- it’s sod’s law, really. That very moment, there’s the sound of people making flustered noises of complaint by the cricket pavilion- they’re all looking up at the roof, as if something’s stuck up there. And if it is, then that’s quite unfortunate, because the only people are this fete are young children and old people, who can’t be expected to climb up there.

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale says, feeling his stomach go cold. “They must’ve- they must’ve lost their cricket ball up there.”

“Go on, then.”

He turns to Crowley, scandalised, even though he knew it was coming. “Absolutely not!”

“Where’s that confidence gone?” he replies, brows raised. And then he does that thing- that thing where he sways a little from side to side, smiling smugly. “I thought you could handle it. Doing _good deeds_ without miracles.”

That’s what does it. Aziraphale looks at Crowley, then at the cricket pavilion, then back at Crowley. 

He shoves the teddy into Crowley’s chest, who peers down at it in alarm.

“Fine! Just watch!”

And so he marches towards the cricket pavilion, arms swinging confidently as he goes. Though he feels that confidence waver the closer he gets to the small crowd of children and octogenarians, each of them looking at the roof uselessly, walking around the perimeter for all the good that’ll do. And Aziraphale suddenly thinks: _oh. I’m really expected to climb up there, aren’t I._

He doesn’t know if Crowley’s following, he sort of hopes he isn’t.

The first old man, wearing his cricket attire, turns and asks: “Oh- could you help us?”

“Yes! Don’t- don’t worry! I’ll help!” Aziraphale announces in his best impression of someone assured and responsible. 

He looks at the pavilion. Sees that the drainpipe is really the only way up. 

_Oh, Lord, what have I gotten myself into._

A child tugs on his sleeve. “Please, sir- our cricket ball’s up there. I think- I think it’s in the middle. We can’t see it.”

Aziraphale gives him a strained smile. Looks back at the pavilion. Then sighs. 

“Yes. Yes, alright then.”

So he makes his way to the drainpipe. Evaluates the situation with his welly boots- not the best climbing shoes- then back at the drainpipe. 

“Only one thing for it,” he says to himself. 

He tries climbing. Aziraphale has never been one for strenuous activity; he had allowed his corporeal form to become soft, because that’s who he is at heart. He likes that he doesn’t go running every morning like Gabriel. He likes, as a habit, not having to scramble up small buildings, like he is right now. 

He surprises even himself as he manages to climb a couple of feet, enough that he can reach the roof with his hands. Now he’s simply hanging there, like a cartoon character clinging onto a cliff edge for dear life.

“Right,” he announces to himself.

“Oh well done, young man!” someone calls.

That’s the first time he thinks he’s _ever_ been called young man.

“Looking very dignified.”

Aziraphale doesn’t need to turn around to know who that is. “Go away, Crowley!”

“There’s- there’s literally not a chance in Hell that I’m missing this.”

His fingers are burning from holding on too tightly. So he does what he has to and pulls himself up- if he puts in a little bit of a miracle into that, nobody needs to know, especially not Crowley. And thus he finds himself belly first on the roof of a cricket pavilion, feeling enormously proud of himself and also like a total fool. 

And there’s the blasted cricket ball, sat there like it has no idea what it’s just made him do. 

“There we are,” he calls back shakily, the cheer in his voice wavering noticeably. 

He gets onto his hands and knees, picks up the ball, groans as he stands up- he’s really not used to this much physical exertion- and breathes a sigh of relief. Then, tosses the ball down to the nearest child. They all pass on a flurry of _thank yous_ and _how good of yous_. The children disappear to continue with their cricket game, and a few of the older members of the team hang around, peering up at Aziraphale. Standing on the roof. 

And he’s feeling rather smug. Because there’s Crowley, watching with a small, restrained smile, arms folded across his chest.

“Hah!” Aziraphale exclaims. 

“Well done you,” Crowley calls sardonically. 

“Thank you _very_ much.”

“So. How’re you going to get down?”

Aziraphale opens his mouth. Then he feels himself deflate. “Um.”

“‘Cause, it just occurred to me,” Crowley muses casually, “that the drainpipe won’t be very easy to climb down. And you could jump, but you might hurt yourself.”

“Don’t jump, young man- I’m sure we’ll find a ladder.”

“What’s happening?”

“There’s a man stuck on the roof.”

“First it was the cricket ball, now it’s a person.”

“Oh my word, what’s Aziraphale doing on the roof?”

_Lord_\- that’s Tilly and Xeno coming. They’ve taken a stand by Crowley, who’s grinning wildly at him. Tilly is sniggering behind her hand. Xeno, meanwhile, is gazing up at him like he’s waiting for Aziraphale to explain what the rules to this strange game is. 

“Hello, Aziraphale!” Xeno waves happily.

“Come on you silly bastard, get down from there!” Tilly calls. 

“I-” Aziraphale closes his eyes, huffs to himself. How embarrassing. “I can’t.”

“Yes you can! I’ll catch you!” Xeno extends his arms.

“Oh- no, please, please, Xeno, don’t.”

Then Crowley disappears around the corner. Aziraphale peers down to look for him- but then Dodders arrives with Bingy.

“What fun!” Dodders bellows. “Are we all climbing onto the roof, now?”

“Christ, Dodders, please,” Tilly laughs breathlessly.

Bingy winces up at him, cigarette in mouth. “Aziraphale you silly bastard, how did you get up there?”

“Why- why have you all come to watch?” Aziraphale cries. Standing on the roof by himself like a cat stuck in a tree. “If you don’t have any useful advice, then please go and do something else!”

“Nothing to be embarrassed about, old chap,” Bingy says wryly. “We’ve all got stuck on a roof at some point.”

“I have,” Xeno sticks up his hand as if in a classroom.

“Please, could you all _stop staring_ at me.”

Then Crowley reappears.

Aziraphale sighs. “Oh, for the love of-”

“Look what I’ve found!” Crowley says with fake surprise. He’s holding a ladder. “I didn’t see this before, did you? What a shame, thinking you could have used this ladder all this time?”

“Bugger off, Crowley!” Aziraphale retorts.

Crowley cackles at that. Holding his miraculous ladder that he’s just conjured up, all pleased with himself. “Come on, Aziraphale, don’t be proud. I’ve got your escape route.”

And whilst Aziraphale is very stubborn- it takes a minute or two of convincing- he does concede to using the ladder to get down. It’s not very graceful, but he manages. And when he gets to the bottom, the small crowd that’s gathered give him a _well done_ and a pat on the shoulder before returning to whatever it is they were doing before. 

Crowley sidles up to him, the rest of the gang chattering as they power on ahead. It looks like they’re all making their way back home, now.

“How humiliating,” Aziraphale mutters, brushing himself off.

“Thought you did a very good job, myself. Thought you did it with grace and poise.”

“No you didn’t, go away.”

Crowley cackles again. “I’ve never seen you climb anything before. I’ve known you for six thousand years and you’ve never climbed anything-”

“I’m never talking to you again.”

Aziraphale turns his head pointedly the other direction, and Crowley continues to laugh. And if Crowley’s laughing at his expense, that’s fine; he likes the sound. It’s not one he hears often. 

They walk slowly- the others disappear out of sight quickly, around the corner of some twisting Devonshire road. The teddy bear hangs in Crowley’s hand, and after a minute of two he grumbles _this is yours, take it_, and Aziraphale does- happily. They walk and talk and bicker and reminisce, and it takes them about half an hour to realise they have no idea where they’re going or how to get home. Or where the others are. It doesn’t matter all that much to them.

They walk through an unfamiliar field, then another, and the sky is growing darker- not with the evening, but rain. And it takes about an hour before they spot Crossley Hall estate in the distance, so they walk through cow fields and clamber over styles to get there. Crowley doesn’t make much complaint, as Aziraphale thought he might. In a way, it feels as if this walk is some much sought time alone for both of them. 

After the swimming pool incident last night, it feels far, far more intimate than any walk they’ve taken before. 

It begins to rain, lightly. Just enough to cover Aziraphale’s skin with a film of water. His flat cap does little to protect him from it. And when Crossley Hall looks as if it’s only two fields away, they approach another fence. It’s much like the others, very climbable (Aziraphale’s sworn never to climb another thing ever again), except this time, it’s muddy. The rain has turned the ground into a swamp.

Aziraphale stares at it. Hands on his hips, wincing in the rain. Teddy bear securely concealed inside his waist-coat, so it makes a strange lump under his clothes. 

“Right. Shall we?”

“Ugh,” Crowley wrinkles his nose.

“Come on. Mud never did anyone any harm!” Aziraphale announces.

“Could just miracle ourselves to the other side.”

And that- oh, the feeling that gives Aziraphale. Utter triumph. He turns to give Crowley a wicked smile.

“No,” he begs. “No, not now. I’m not getting stuck in the mud.”

“But you _could_ do it without a miracle. I know you could.”

It sounds more like a taunt than encouragement. Crowley sneers at him, then turns to the muddy bog, then wades in. Because they’re both just as stubborn and competitive as each other.

He gets stuck just before he manages to reach the style. Tries to shift his feet out of the mud, that’s reached shin deep, but can’t. And so he simply stands there, arms extended for balance like a scarecrow. 

“Come on! You can do it!” Aziraphale calls, punching the air.

“Fuck off!”

Aziraphale laughs to himself. “You may have to take your feet out of the wellies. Then sit on the style and pull the wellies out from there.”

Crowley’s back is turned to him, but he can practically see him glaring. “Yes, sounds like an _excellent plan._”

“Any other bright ideas?”

The lack of response tells him he doesn’t. And so Aziraphale watches with an unrestrained smile as Crowley grabs onto the fence, pulls himself out, finds a seat on the muddy style, bare foot. Well, wearing socks, but notably without wellies. He sits there and glowers at Aziraphale from behind his sunglasses as if willing for him to burst into flames. There isn’t, actually, very much heat behind it. And by the time he’s rescued his wellies, Aziraphale’s already strolled to the other side of the fence, miracling his feet to go without sinking- after all the fences they’ve climbed over thus far, he’s already mucky enough, thank you very much. 

Crowley calls him a lot of names after that. Aziraphale maintains that he’s already proven he can survive without miracles, no need to labour the point now.

They walk back to the house in the rain. The mood isn’t despondent as it ought to have been, caught in this weather- it’s warm. They make their way back to Crossley Hall, arms bumping, soaked to the bone, covered in mud, and with spirits decidedly high. 

***

When they return, the others are lounging about reading and smoking and chatting in the drawing room. Xeno is asleep- he seems to spend all of his limited mental energy just staying awake, therefore requires regular naps- whilst Tilly and Jules are playing a card game on the window seat. Bingy is reading, and Lottie and Dodders are sat side by side on the sofa, staring into nothingness. 

Aziraphale finds them like this when they tread inside, covered in mud, and the sight of the two of them brings them all back to life. Lottie laughs raucously at them, whilst Dodders fusses like a mother hen and runs around in useless circles trying to figure out how to help. 

Eventually, after Aziraphale has assured Dodders that they’re both alright really, they retire upstairs to clean themselves up. Aziraphale watches with some amusement as Crowley hops from foot to foot down the corridor to his room, lifting his feet high in the air as if this will stop the carpet from getting dirty. It makes him look like a crane, or a stork, long legs everywhere. 

Aziraphale lays the teddy bear on a chair in his room. Miracles it dry. 

He takes a long, satisfying bath, feet poking out the other end and the steam clogging the view through the window. He tries to read, but ends up being too afraid of dropping Dodders’ book in the water to bother, so he gives up. Forty five minutes later, feeling thoroughly warmed up and fingers pruny, he finds some dry clothes, including his comfortable indoors cardigan that very few people have had the pleasure of seeing outside of the bookshop.

It’s when he’s checking his tartaned self in the mirror that he hears the sound of the piano softly clinking through the house. Aziraphale’s hands pause at his waistcoat buttons, and he stares at his face in the reflection, watching it soften in surprise. 

_I recognise the tune,_ he thinks to himself. He has the vinyl record of it at home, in a messy pile beside his gramophone. _Nocturne No. 2 in D-Flat Major. Chopin._

His reflection stares back, with wide, dewy eyes. And then he closes them, listens to the distant piano notes, to Crowley playing with feeling- _so much feeling._ There’s something about the sound of music drifting from another room, played by a loved one absent-mindedly. There’s something about it that makes everything inside him feel warm, makes everything else fade away. It brings the smallest smile to his face, and an ache to his heart. 

Eventually, he opens his eyes. As quietly as he can, he closes his bedroom door behind him and goes down the stairs with a careful hand on the bannister. All the while, listening to the gentle noise drifting through the large, stately home. 

Aziraphale finds the occupants of the lounge staring at Crowley, spellbound. Tilly has a serious look on her face, as if she doesn’t want to miss a second. Xeno looks a little tearful. And Crowley merely plays, playing _with_ the keys as if this is nothing, really. As if he’s just practising in an empty room. He looks up at him in acknowledgement then back again as Aziraphale hangs in the doorway. Listening. 

It’s so easy to forget that Crowley is a demon. So, so easy to forget that they’re not meant to be friends, that Aziraphale is not meant to be in love with him. In moments like this, it’s impossible to believe that he can’t be, mustn’t be. Not with the little frown of concentration on Crowley’s face, furrowed just above his sunglasses. The way his body sways as he plays- Aziraphale huffs a silent laugh. Crowley can never stay still, can never control the movement of his limbs. But then, with his piano playing; there’s so much precision to it, such control. And beyond that, the feeling. The feeling is undeniable. Having seen centuries worth of pianists, Aziraphale knows there aren’t many who can achieve such emotive playing as this. 

He loves him so extraordinarily. 

The afternoon grows darker and the tea on the table grows colder. The house grows stiller. And Aziraphale notices the aura of love brighten throughout the house, like the sun emerging from behind a cloud. He feels it warm the place up, feels it take his breath away. And he doesn’t know whether that love is his own, or someone else’s. 

He thinks he knows.

When the piece finally comes to a close, Aziraphale doesn’t move. He merely hangs in the doorway and gazes at Crowley, whose hands are poised gently on the keys, holding the stillness of the moment. 

Dodders claps. Not very loudly, mind you, but loud enough that it makes half of the people in the room jump a little. 

“Remarkable, old sport,” he breathes, shaking his head with a huge grin. “Quite remarkable.”

“What a treat,” Xeno says, wiping his eyes.

“It’s nothing.” Crowley says this as he rubs his hands on his thighs, a nervous gesture. He’s pouting his bottom lip defiantly. Crowley will accept a compliment from no one, not even a room of near-strangers.

And Aziraphale just continues to gaze, silently. Looking like a fool, he knows, but if he opens his mouth, something only more foolish will come out.

“Jazz and classical. What a talented man you are,” Lottie exclaims.

They continue to talk about how wonderful Crowley is, how spectacular his playing is. They chatter away in awe, and Aziraphale stares. 

And then, finally, Crowley looks up at him. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” he mutters, just for Aziraphale to hear. “It’s. It’s nothing.”

“Please stop saying that,” Aziraphale replies. He closes his eyes, tries to correct the love-sick tone to his voice. “That was wonderful. And it wasn’t nothing.”

Crowley groans, is probably rolling his eyes. And he throws his hands in the air in irritated defeat, not willing to argue, apparently. Perhaps Crowley’s finally learned that there’s little point in arguing with him. 

“Lots of people can play the piano, ‘m no different.”

_You’re very different. There’s nobody else like you_, he thinks. Instead, he says, “I can’t. I couldn’t do what you just did, not with such…” he swallows, and Crowley stares at the floor. “Not with so much feeling.”

“Go and tell the whole blessed world, why don’t you,” Crowley growls.

Aziraphale smiles down at him. Crowley still won’t look back. The others talk quietly amongst themselves, and he hasn’t the presence of mind to listen to what they’re saying. 

“Come on. Come here,” Crowley suddenly beckons him.

Aziraphale blinks. “I’m sorry?”

Crowley nods his head emphatically and waves him over. “Come. Sit. I’ll teach you.”

“I can’t play what you just played, my dear. I should warn you I’ll be terrible.”

“‘S fine. You’ll be great at it. Now, come on.”

“Alright, alright, I’ll sit.”

Crowley budges up a little, and Aziraphale perches on the edge of the seat beside him, looking down at the keys with a strange nervousness. 

“Look at you,” Crowley leans back and surveys him. “Sat up straight, perfect piano posture. Unsurprising, I suppose.”

“Yes, well. I don’t think I’ll be very good at the actual playing part,” Aziraphale says, casting Crowley a peripheral glance.

Crowley makes a barely suppressed smile, shakes his head to himself. “You-” He sighs. “You haven’t even tried yet. Just- put your thumb on middle C.”

Aziraphale stares at him. Crowley sighs again, takes his hand.

Aziraphale sits up even straighter and feels his mouth go dry, watches Crowley place his hand gently over the keyboard- spreading each finger over each key. Carefully. Then, he lets his hand go. 

“C is where your thumb’s sat right now.”

His throat is extraordinarily dry. “Alright.”

“Press it.”

He does, too carefully. The only sound that comes out is the almost silent susurration of the key moving. 

“You’ve got to give it more welly than that.”

Aziraphale does. And it’s extraordinarily loud. There’s a bubble of laughter from the others behind them.

“Fucking hell,” Crowley rubs his face. “You’re right, you’re shit at this.”

“Well, there’s _no_ need for that!”

“Right, sorry, forget I said anything. I give up.”

“No- no, I’m going to do it properly, just give me another moment.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Just watch me.”

Aziraphale takes a breath, looks down at the keyboard. Presses the key. It makes a normal sound this time.

“Ah!”

“Yes- oh, yes, very well done, marvellous, very accomplished.”

“Thank you.”

“Try your thumb, middle finger and pinky.”

Aziraphale does. It makes a very messy chord.

“_Ah!_”

Crowley huffs, and there’s a broad smile on his lips. “There you go.”

And that makes Aziraphale narrow his eyes at him. It sparks that pleasant hum in his chest- their bantering, the strangeness of this moment. The gentleness of it. This is special, he realises. 

“You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”

“Did what,” Crowley drawls, smile dropping.

“Teased me, so I’d prove you wrong. Foul demon.”

Crowley sniffs, shrugs, places his right hand on the keys and plays a thoughtless tune. “Didn’t do anything, don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You know me far too well.”

From here, sat by his side, he can see the gold of Crowley’s eyes. They blink down at the piano. His shoulders move with a quiet sigh. 

“Alright. Let’s play a duet. I’ll show you the left hand part and I’ll do the rest.”

“Oh. I don’t know if I’m ready for that yet. You go too fast, Crowley.”

He frowns strangely at him. Aziraphale can’t parse that expression. He does note the way his brows raise a little, throat bobbing as he swallows.

“It’s.” He hesitates. Crowley’s never been especially good with his words, but he’s struggling especially right now, for whatever reason. “It’s straight forward, come on, angel. You’ve pretty much got half of it already.”

So Crowley shows him a little repetitive tune that someone of his limited abilities can play, pinky finger playing a lower note, thumb and middle finger making a little chord. It’s a waltz, and by the time Crowley’s ordered him to play it for a solid minute, Aziraphale reckons his muscle memory has it sorted. 

Unfortunately for Crowley, Aziraphale isn’t taking this enormously seriously. He’s drunk off the feeling of Crowley giving him all this attention, drunk off the feeling of their legs pressed together, side by side on the stool. And so, just when Crowley has begun to trust him to play this simple tune, just as he’s started on his own half of the duet, Aziraphale goes entirely off piste. 

He plays a very loud, very satisfying _PLONK_ at the very low end of the piano. 

“What- no. No, no,” Crowley grimaces.

“I think it adds to the melody.”

Aziraphale leans over Crowley and plays one of the high notes with a loud _PLINK_.

“No,” Crowley shakes his head. “No, it really doesn’t, just- just, play what I showed you-”

“You’re no fun.”

Crowley growls, infuriated. Aziraphale smiles pleasantly, begins playing random notes like a child. 

“Stop. Please, for the love of God, stop.”

“Look how confident I am, now. Ten minutes ago, I was too nervous to play middle C, and now-” Aziraphale plays middle C triumphantly. Crowley sighs. “Alright, I’m sorry, I’ll do as you say.”

“Thanks so much,” comes Crowley’s sarcastic reply.

And so Aziraphale plays properly, and the notes suddenly sound smoother than they did before. Aziraphale sends Crowley a happy, surprised smile. 

“You’re using the pedal!”

“Yep.”

He returns his attention to his left hand, frowning at it in concentration. Even with the muscle memory, it’s not easy for him to do this, and occasionally, he’ll make a little mistake, or his hand will jump to the wrong place. And Crowley begins to play his part, a beautiful sweeping cascade of notes that distracts Aziraphale; he has to work even harder to do his part, with the rest of it going on. Especially as it sounds so nice. Especially with their shoulders bumping together. 

It takes him a moment or two to get into the swing of it. And when he does, he realises that Crowley isn’t looking at the keyboard as he plays. No- he’s looking at Aziraphale. Playing a beautiful, quiet tune, all the while watching Aziraphale. And it makes him feel self-conscious, in a nice way. In a way that makes him want to keep looking at the piano rather than at Crowley. 

Because Aziraphale knows that as soon as he looks at Crowley, the moment will break- Crowley will look away, and he’ll never feel this special again.

So he pretends. Aziraphale pretends he hasn’t noticed Crowley staring, continues to play. Lets the smile grow on his face and the warmth blossom around his heart.

Neither one of them have noticed that the others have gone- which is quite something, considering that the door is right beside the piano. So involved in their duet, they didn’t see them leave. Hours of playing, playing together, thoughtless and relaxed and filled with laughter and bickering and quiet, hands brushing. 

And eventually, they go to bed. They retire for the night and part ways in the corridor, Crowley pausing outside his room as if he wants to say something. After a moment, he merely says _night, angel_ and dives inside his room as if in escape. Without giving it much further thought, Aziraphale goes to his room, changes into his pyjamas, reads for a while, and then lies there in his bed, watching the ceiling. He doesn’t sleep that night. He thinks of Jules’ words: _You smile differently with him_.

When he closes his eyes, he still hears their music in his head.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a touch of angst....

The sun has finally come out, and it’s roaring hot. 

It took a couple of hours to organise everyone sensibly, but now they’re here, at sunny Gara Rock. All eight of them are making their way down a steep slope towards the beach. The bushes are filled with the sound of crickets chirping. The occasional sheep wanders in front of their precarious path, a man made track that’s been eroded into the rock after hundreds of years of rambling. It’s obvious that this place has been dry all summer, until yesterday’s rain- there are pink and yellow flowers just beginning to pop up around the landscape. 

Even though it’s hot, it’s also windy. Sunburning weather. He’s walking just behind Jules, whose neck looks like it’s already beginning to go pink. The breeze makes Crowley’s light, linen clothes ripple, makes him wince from behind his sunglasses. He flings the beach towel over his shoulder and looks over at the sparkling blue sea as they make their way down the slope. 

“Isn’t it glorious?” Dodders calls from out front. 

“Spectacular,” Lottie agrees. She’s wearing a comically enormous hat that flops about with every downwards step she takes. 

“I can absolutely imagine you and Bing rollicking about in the sand when you were both kidlets,” Tilly adds. The wind tries to carry her voice off, but Tilly’s stronger than the wind. “Climbing rocks and gettin’ into trouble.”

“Ah, Bingy’s only ever been once. I always used to go to his for the summer.”

“Why’s that, Dods old chap?” Xeno says this from behind Crowley. He’s painfully aware that he’s carrying a huge, spear-like umbrella for shade- he’s not sure who’s responsible for giving Xeno the task of carrying such a thing, but Crowley might have to have words with them. “It’s so lovely here I could just live here forever and ever.”

“My parents never allowed me to come down here,” Dodders replies.

Tilly turns and looks back at them with a confused frown. Brows furrowed furiously above her ginormous sunglasses. Jules doesn’t respond to this, and neither does Crowley. He doesn’t see whether the others react. 

_Strict, inattentive parents, eh?_ Crowley thinks. _Join the club._

Most of them struggle at the last bit; the path is so eroded at the bottom that it’s practically a slide. The sandstone rock is slippery and crumbles away at the lightest footstep. Bingy therefore does the gentlemanly thing and goes down first, helping each of them (although he has the sense not to try offering Crowley a hand). And the little stream that runs straight through the beach and into the sea from the cliff gurgles beside them as they clamber. Crowley and Aziraphale are praised for the surety of their step, never tripping up once. 

When they reach the bottom, Crowley waits for Aziraphale- who takes his side with a fleeting, peripheral smile. They walk along the beach to find a spot in silence.

Aziraphale’s been like this all morning. 

Crowley’s not sure what it is. Perhaps it’s something he’s said, or done. He has no clue. He’s not a bloody-well mind reader. But he’s just going ahead and assuming that he’s done something to upset him, because Aziraphale’s being quiet and pensive, like he has something he wants to say but doesn’t know how to say it. Aziraphale isn’t enormously confrontational, so it might be a while before he finds out what it is that he’s done. Historically, centuries have passed before the angel has worked up the courage to speak his mind. Hopefully that won’t be the case this time.

They’d had such a good day together, yesterday. His mood had changed so suddenly. Crowley’s struggling to figure out what this could be about. 

The beach is quiet, small, a little cove closed off from the rest of the world. There are a few families, some kids running about and kicking water at each other. There’s a tiny, yappy dog belting about, boomeranging around the beach as it retrieves a ball and fetches it again. Dodders makes the executive decision- as he always does- in finding a nice, shady spot, and Xeno plants the umbrella there like a flag. 

Crowley stands there, not feeling much like joining in if Aziraphale isn’t. Which he isn’t. He’s sulking, for whatever reason, hovering just a few meters away from Crowley. He’s frowning, though that’s largely because he’s wincing in the sun. What gives the bad mood away is the way he keeps on sighing, shoulders tense and hands fiddling with each other. 

“Now, if I remember correctly,” Dodders explains, pointing towards the horizon, “and I know I am, because I haven’t stopped thinking about it all week- we used to have a little dinghy. Just around the corner- there’s a footpath just there, you have to go that way then left- and there’s a row of little boats. Thomas owns one of them. And the few times I did come down here was with Thomas- the butler, sorry, I realise you haven’t met him- and, well, it wasn’t my parents’ boat, rather it was mine and Thomas’. And we took it out once or twice and just escaped it all. It was…”

Dodders’ words disappear. Overcome by sudden emotion, and he seems surprised by it, too. He doesn’t finish his sentence, but they can all understand what he’s trying to get at. 

Bingy pats him on the back. Dodders stares back, wide eyed and lips pursed. “Then I say you should go find it.”

“I’ll come with you.”

Aziraphale immediately volunteers this. Drops his little beach bag on the sand, book tumbling out. 

And Crowley tilts his head as he looks at him. He’s all tense and jumpy, like any minute some elastic band will snap and take him somewhere else.

“Just be careful, though,” Bingy says. “It is windy, remember, and you know what the sea is like in these parts. The waves can be frightful fierce.”

“Don’t you worry, Bing. We’ll be sensible.”

Bingy gives Dodders a look. Peering up at his considerably taller friend with raised brows. Dodders beams back, looming over him- only Dodders could make looming something so unthreatening. 

“I don’t believe you, but go on.”

Whatever tense, reminiscent mood Dodders was experiencing a moment ago disappears, and he bounces off down the beach, with Aziraphale in tow- semi-jogging as he struggles to keep up with his pace. 

When Bingy and Crowley turn to each other to exchange a glance, he feels an almost shocking sense of commonality. They’re both wondering what’s going on with their respective person. And the surprise of wordlessly sharing this moment makes them both turn away again, clearing their throats awkwardly and pretending nothing happened. 

About ten minutes later, Crowley finds himself comfortably lying on a beach towel, eyes closed and ignoring everything around him. Ignoring everything going inside of him too, only focusing on the sound of the sea hissing with sand. By the sounds of it, Lottie and Tilly have gone for a swim. Jules, Xeno and Bingy remain. They’re all uncharacteristically quiet. Everyone appears to be out of character today except for Jules and the girls.

But Crowley’s not thinking about this, he’s ignoring it all. The only thing he’s thinking about is the splotches of colours he can see behind his closed eyes, the sun doing strange things to his vision through his eyelids. Corporeal forms are strange. 

“Any idea where Jules went?” Bing asks distantly. “He left his hat, silly sod. He always burns.”

“He said something about rock pools,” Xeno replies. 

Oh, so Jules isn’t here. He’s so typically silent that it’s impossible to tell with closed eyes. 

“Do you think there are starfish here, Bing?”

“I don’t really know, Xeno.”

There’s a pause, and Crowley takes a slow, deep breath. 

“Don’t you think clouds are just the nicest things in the world?” 

“They’re not bad.”

“So delightfully soft. Imagine if you could touch one, Bing. How nice.”

“I think it’d be wet. Clouds are just steam, I think.”

“But soft, too. Just the nicest things in the world.”

Crowley sighs again. At the start of all this, he’d found Xeno almost unbearable. However, since his surprising heart to heart with him yesterday during their walk, he’s found that he quite likes how inquisitive he is. It’s not only endearing, but also interesting, to consider the rose-tinted goggles through which he sees the world. All the more interesting when he considers just how much horror Xeno has seen, how much pain, how much he’d lived through during the war. 

He wishes he were a bit more like Xenophon Smith. 

And there’s something, apparently, about Crowley that Xeno finds approachable. Because he’d opened up to him about some of said horror. Perhaps, despite being a bit dim, his intuition is on point; perhaps he’d sensed that Crowley would understand. 

As a demon, he should probably fix that. Make himself less approachable. He’s reluctant to, though. 

Either way, Crowley had imparted what wisdom and comfort he could. After the champagne cork situation, after their conversation- he now paints a rather different picture of Xeno’s child-like ramblings. Bing chats with him with just as much patience and gentleness as Crowley thinks the man deserves. 

“Why do you think the sky’s blue?”

“It’s the light reflecting off particles in our atmosphere,” Crowley says.

“Oh.” Then, “Sorry- what does that mean?”

“Means that. Means that, essentially, everything’s made out of little particles, little bits. You and me, everything, the universe is all made out of different little bits, like building blocks. So’s the air we breathe, and the sun sort of reflects off of the building blocks in the air. Ish. And, just ‘cause of the way that light bounces around, it turns out blue in the sky. Like through a blue lampshade.”

He’s not sure he explained it correctly, if he’s right- scientific theories change constantly, he has trouble keeping track- but he’s fairly satisfied with his answer. He lays his forearm across his eyes, digs his toes in the sand. 

“Hm,” Bing replies. “Jolly interesting.”

“I see. Golly. Thank you.” Xeno says this like he’s surprised Crowley answered so truthfully. 

There’s another stretch of quiet. It’s neither good nor bad, neither tense nor relaxed, it just is. Crowley feels the sun encroaching on their territory, pushing back the shade so his feet are getting too hot. 

“Isn’t Dodders in a strange mood today?”

Crowley winces from behind his arm. “Mm,” he replies noncommittally.

Xeno continues. “I wonder if he’s having trouble with Lottie. They do seem to be very serious around each other at the moment. Not very romantic.”

He can practically feel Bingy tensing over on his left. Crowley lets out a long, slow breath, hopes that Xeno will pick up on the atmosphere. A few gulls cry overhead.

Then:

“You know, I did see them.” It sounds as if Xeno is making a rudimentary sandcastle over on his right, because he can hear the stuff getting everywhere. “Yesterday, when we were all in the drawing room. Apart from you and Aziraphale, Crowley. They were sat on the sofa looking awfully peaky. Staring into the distance.”

“Right,” Bing replies tensely. 

“Honestly, he’s been hanging out far more with you, Bingy, than anyone else- especially not Lottie. Maybe that’s why he’s in a strange mood. Maybe he feels bad.”

This is going in a very dangerous direction. Crowley pokes Xeno with his foot. 

And Xeno keeps on going. “Although perhaps he doesn’t feel guilty. Dodders usually tells us all when he’s feeling- Crowley? Why are you kicking me, Crowley? Crowley, what am I to do?”

Crowley sighs. Drops his arm away from his face. Stares up at the sky. “Nothing, Xeno. Don’t worry about it.”

“Alright. It feels as if you’re trying to tell me something-”

“There’s no need to dance around the topic, boys.”

Bing says this abruptly. The two of them turn to view him. Xeno is staring at Bingy open mouthed, black hair still miraculously slicked back despite the breeze. Bingy winces as he stares resolutely out at the ocean, jaw tensed. Sandy curls poking out from underneath his panama hat. 

“What’s that, Bing?” Xeno asks innocently. 

Crowley sighs to himself again and watches the seagulls circle overhead. _Here we go._

Bing huffs to himself, before saying, “That there’s something going on between me and Humphrey. You needn’t pretend there isn’t, not for my benefit. As much as he goes on about me being sweet on this girl, or that girl, or them liking me, it’s the truth. He says those things to fool himself as much as the rest of you. And, I don’t know why he’s in a skittish mood today, although it’s possibly because I told him last night that I love him.”

It’s rare that Crowley’s had the chance to see someone’s world shatter. To see it on their face the moment it happens. He’s seen it once or twice over the millennia for varying reasons. Now, it seems no less cruel to see the gentle Xenophon Smith’s face fall. So very suddenly. 

“You love him?” he asks quietly.

Bing doesn’t reply. He just stares out at the sea, sat with his arms around his knees and shoulders hunched. And Xeno simply stares, like he’s been given a particularly difficult mental maths question. 

There’s nothing Crowley can say or do. All he does is watch. 

And then Xeno blinks down at his lap. He nods to himself minutely. “I think I’m going to go for a walk.”

He gets up and leaves without another word, trousers rolled up to his ankles as he wades through a shallow stream. Bing watches him go with a frown. Crowley considers going with him, but figures the man might need a moment to let it settle. 

“That. Well, that wasn’t the reaction I was expecting,” Bing mutters. “I didn’t see that coming at all.”

“There’s a lot you haven’t seen,” Crowley replies simply. 

There’s no response to that. If Bingy’s understood what he’s getting at, he doesn’t say. But then, he isn’t usually so demonstrative as he has been just now, Crowley reckons. They both watch Xeno’s figure disappear over a grassy bank, wind whipping his shirt around his bracers. 

It leaves the two of them in a strange silence. A sort of tacit understanding between them, like they both know that they’re in a similar boat- even if not exactly the same. Crowley sits up a little, props himself on his elbows so he can see the ocean. Children playing, parents trying to gather them up in towels, or drag them back for a sandy sandwich. The little dog, whipping about, flicking water everywhere when it shakes. Tilly and Lottie in the distance, bobbing side by side in the ocean. Crowley can hear Tilly laugh from here. Lottie’s lost her hat in the ocean, and Tilly’s trying to retrieve it. 

“Are you going to tell Aziraphale?”

Crowley sighs. Grimaces. “Eehhhh probably not. Been so long now, I’m sort of used to the idea that he doesn’t know and never will.”

Bing huffs a miserable laugh. “I know that feeling well.”

“What made you tell him?”

The response isn’t immediate- in fact, Bingy doesn’t even move, so Crowley thinks he hasn’t heard, until: “I’m not sure, really. I think I just got tired of seeing him pretending. I got more tired of pretending myself. It’s exhausting.”

“Too right.”

“That being said, I’m not sure if telling him was the right idea.”

“No?”

A sigh. “I’m not sure. We both agree that it’s what we’d want, but whether it’s right is something different. The fact that Lottie and Tilly have their own thing going is… neither here nor there. If life were simpler, we’d just do things that way. But life isn’t simple.”

“Isn’t it?”

Bing doesn’t reply this time. He just watches the world before him, and Crowley gets the sense he isn’t really seeing any of it. 

It’s only after a few minutes that Bing eventually says, “You should tell Aziraphale.”

Crowley frowns at him. “You made a pretty convincing argument not to.”

“Humphrey and I are different. It’s complicated with us, it’s not the same. It’s probably simpler for you.”

Crowley snorts, shakes his head. “It’s really, really not.”

They both watch the sun glitter on the ocean. “No. I suppose it rarely is.”

That’s when the boat comes into view. 

It’s obvious that it’s their boat, because Aziraphale sticks out like a sore thumb. Wearing his painfully white linen suit, standing up for some reason- it looks like to fix the rigger for one of the oars. And then there’s Dodders, sat down, but still tall enough to recognise. Their dinghy bobs jauntily on the waves, and Crowley sees Aziraphale holding onto his hat against the breeze.

“Look at them,” Bing says, both weary and affectionate.

Crowley watches as Aziraphale leans over to fix the dinghy, one way or another. It’s quite precarious, with how high the waves are. And they’re fairly close to some jagged rocks.

Not very sensible at all, or responsible. But then, despite appearances, Aziraphale really is neither of those things.

“They’re going to fall in, aren’t they,” Crowley mutters.

“Beyond a doubt.”

They say this jokingly, but both of them are tensed. Crowley sits up properly to watch.

Aziraphale stops what he’s doing, but remains standing up; is listening to Dodders say something with all of his attention. He pays none of that attention to the huge wave that’s approaching.

_Angel, I swear to God, if you don’t sit down right now,_ Crowley thinks to himself. 

He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. Because Aziraphale exists to drive Crowley absolutely fucking insane. No- he continues to stand, the wave continues to approach, and he continues to stare at Dodders. 

And from over here, with the wind carrying his voice over, he can hear Aziraphale tell Dodders, aghast:

“Absolutely _not!_”

And then the wave hits. 

It looks like there’s a moment where Aziraphale’s going to miracle the boat back to its upright position, but he’s too late. He’s caught too much off guard. In the end, it’s the momentum of him falling that flips the boat over- he tips it, and Dodders goes too. 

Crowley and Bingy are up and running before they hit the water. 

It’s astonishing that they’re both on their feet so quickly- perhaps that was a little miracle of Crowley’s own. Maybe he’d cast it without realising. They sprint towards the sea, feet slapping against shallow water. Crowley’s launching himself into the sea without much dignity- he’s never fallen with grace, or with a saunter, as much as he likes to trick himself- and he’s swimming out towards the rocks before he knows where he is. 

The relief of seeing both Aziraphale and Dodders both appear to the surface is enormous. 

Swimming against the tide is hard. Crowley gets both himself and Bing there with a little will power. And Aziraphale is treading water, hair plastered to his face, looking incredibly disgruntled by the whole affair. Dodders is trying to flip the boat over, with little success. The moment he grabs onto the bottom of the boat, his hands slip and he’s plunged underwater for a moment. Bursting back up to the surface, spitting and spluttering.

“You daft bastard! What do you think you’re doing!”

Bingy’s there now. They’re trying to right the boat, pushing it over together and failing. They’re both laughing. If they weren’t concentrating so hard on treading water, they’d probably be hugging. It’s too intimate a scene for Crowley to be watching.

He’s more preoccupied with Aziraphale, anyway. Who’s staring at him, wide eyed and like he’s about to burst into tears.

“Crowley,” he says, so quietly. So gently.

“You alright, angel?”

“I’m- I’m fine. Those rocks were jolly close, though, weren’t they, that was quite lucky-”

“You could’ve gotten yourself discorporated.”

He hates the way his voice sounds. He hates how bitter and angry he sounds, when really, he’s just scared. All the while, Aziraphale looks like he’s about to cry. He looks angry, too. The quiet, teary look hardens into something else.

Then, Aziraphale demands: “Why did you come?”

“What?”

A wave lifts them up, makes them bob in the water like buoys. Salt water washes over Crowley’s face and pushes a matt of red hair into his eyes. He spits, clears his view, sees Aziraphale swimming towards some of the safer looking rocks. 

Crowley growls, infuriated, and follows.

“What do you-” he clambers onto a rock. Aziraphale’s a little further off, sat on a rock, wringing his jacket in his hands. “What do you mean?”

Aziraphale huffs, closes his eyes. Grips onto his jacket with white knuckles. The waves spray white foam at their feet. “Why did you come rescue me, Crowley? Why do you have to ride in, all heroic, and- and- _whisk me away_ like I’m a damsel in distress?”

“Wh- I’m sorry, _what?_”

“I don’t need saving, Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaims, turning to him with a look of excruciating distress. “I didn’t ask for it and you don’t need to! I’m absolutely fine by myself!”

This is too confusing. Too much, too painful, too sudden a u-turn after yesterday. And what’s worse is Aziraphale’s right- he follows him around like a puppy and he hates himself for being so obvious, so clingy and ridiculous and-

“You don’t need saving? Come the fuck on, Aziraphale! I’ve been saving you for centuries, if I hadn’t come along when-”

Aziraphale pokes an accusatory finger. “If you mention the Bastille _one more time_\- I’ll- I’ll-”

He flounders. Crowley waits, throws out his hands impatiently for Aziraphale to finish. He doesn't. He just growls in irritation. 

The angel gets up inelegantly, clambers up the rocks towards the sand. Shirt stuck to his skin. Concentrating hard on miracling his feet to the right places. 

“Where are you going, angel,” he calls wearily.

“I need space!”

The sun beats down on them and Aziraphale reaches the peak of the jagged rocks, reaching the other side and shuffling down on his bum out of view. Crowley would laugh if he didn’t feel so hurt. He sits there and feels his breath fall out of him. Feels something inside of him tumble like a tower of loose bricks. 

Dodders and Bingy are swimming back around the corner, dragging the boat with them and laughing.

Crowley sits on the rocks and lays his face in his hands. He feels cold water drip from his nose, and it’s only now that he realises how cold the ocean was. In the moment, he’d forgotten. He snarls to himself. It’s so pathetic. It’s so pathetic how much he’s in love with Aziraphale. Pathetic enough that Aziraphale’s obviously noticed, told him that he _needs space_. Told Crowley to shove off and stop badgering him.

Of course Aziraphale doesn’t need saving. That’s never been the point. 

The point is that every time the angel is in the slightest bit of danger, Crowley feels himself stand up from whatever hole he’s dug himself- feels himself running towards Aziraphale, forgetting all his self-loathing and useless guilt. Everything is put aside the moment he senses the angel might need him- even when he doesn’t. He’d do anything. Regardless of how capable he really is. He’d come running to tie his fucking shoe laces.

“Pathetic,” Crowley growls, face in his hands, sea at his feet. “Pathetic pathetic _pathetic_.”

He hasn’t got his plants to shout at this time.

***

The car journey back from the beach is unpleasant. Crowley drives back Xeno, Tilly and Lottie; the former is pale, looks like he might be sick. The latter two are painfully happy, chattering away. It makes Crowley furious. Jealous and bitter and filled with an urge to scream. He grips the driving wheel like he might tear it clean off.

Aziraphale went in Dodders’ car.

He can see them up ahead, the roof down. Dodders gesticulating wildly, Bing tipping his head backwards as he laughs. Jules, and Aziraphale sat quietly at the back. Crowley glowers. Tries to hate Aziraphale, but can’t find it in himself.

The dangerous mood dissipates as soon as they turn the corner into Crossley Hall.

“Oh Lord,” Lottie moans.

Crowley looks at her in the wing mirror. “Looks like we have guests.”

There are cars parked at the front of the stately home. There are people stepping out of said cars, staff holding the doors open for them in penguin suits. People gathered in the garden. All dressed up in pearls and large hats and heels getting stuck in the lawn. A band set up, playing dreary music. 

“Dodders’ parents are back,” Tilly mutters.

Xeno’s gone an even paler shade of pale. 

“I take it they’re not much fun,” Crowley remarks.

“They’re awful, Crowley. Just awful.”

It takes him aback a little to hear Xeno speak so negatively of someone. Crowley eyes the crowd of old people eating strawberries and laughing politely. At the men in uniform, pretending that they’re still generals, pretending they know more than the young men they ordered to the front line. Men sporting comically large moustaches and speaking with low, booming voices. People who have a very particular idea of how things should be, people who probably really wouldn’t like someone like Crowley- or even the rest of them, as they pull up in their cars. 

Crowley nods to himself. And, seeing how horribly nice and orderly and proper all of this, he smiles. He feels a sudden sense of purpose. Like he’s been led into a nice tidy room, handed a cricket bat and told to go wild.

“We’ll manage,” he says. 

They pull up at the front of the house. Crowley swings out of the car, leans against the door and folds his arms across his chest. Watches. After all, it’s important to do your research before sowing mischief and discord.

Dodders and Bing are still in the car. Dodders looks like he’s having some sort of meltdown, and Bing has a hand on his shoulder, talking to him in a low voice. 

“This could either go horribly wrong, or terribly well.”

It’s Tilly who says this. She’s perched on the bonnet beside Crowley, swinging her legs off the edge. Giant, circular glasses making her look like a bug, though a very sophisticated one at that. 

Crowley hums in agreement. 

They both look seriously over at Dodders, who’s stepping gingerly out of the car. Bing close by his side, a hand on his back. They watch as an old woman approaches, a long, dark dress that’s utterly inappropriate for the hot weather, and a hat that looks like an oversized butterfly has landed on her head. Her pearls are as long as her torso and they clatter when she walks, gravel crunching under her heeled shoes. She has a face like thunder, though she holds her hands up delicately as she walks. In the distance, a tall man hovers, peering around the corner of the building behind the rose bushes. Whiskery moustache twitching in distress. Indisputably, this is the master of the Doddering-Heights home, though he looks completely incapable of mastering anything, even from here. 

Dodders tenses, and a very quiet, very stern argument ensues between mother and son. 

“And, I dunno about you,” Tilly continues, Birmingham accent making her words heavy, “But I know an opportunity when I see one.”

He looks at her. Silk blouse tucked into trousers, bracers tight over her shoulders, a pair of black Oxfords swinging happily. Long earrings, and red, red lips pulled into a determined smile. 

Crowley smirks back.

“Reckon we can diffuse the tension?” he drawls.

“_Absolutely_. If ever there’s a time to be truly scandalous to lighten the mood, it’d be now.”

Mother is more intimidating than Dodders, who’s possibly a foot taller than her. She has huge, medusa like eyes and her wrinkled face makes her look like she’s been stuffed inside a drawer and then pulled out again, not properly ironed. And Dodders’ shoulders are somehow both slumped and tensed. Bing doesn’t take his eyes off mother-Doddering-Heights, a cold, hard look on his face. Holding back a lot of restrained thoughts, Crowley reckons. 

Meanwhile, Jules, Lottie and Xeno watch by the porch of the house. There’s little else to do. 

Crowley notices Aziraphale going over to where the Doddering-Heights feud is taking place, a determined but prim look on his face. 

“Uh-oh,” Crowley mutters to himself. 

Aziraphale makes that sweet smile- that smile he does when he’s talking to difficult humans, borderline condescending but mostly just polite. And he hears most of what he says- it goes along the lines of _I’m sure Humphrey had no idea that you were here this weekend_ and _it’s my fault, really, I practically twisted his arm to take us to Devon_ and such-like. Crowley’d had half a mind to go over and tempt her himself, try and avert any big family spat for Dodders’ benefit, but this seems to work just fine, too. 

Eventually mother nods, blinking in confusion at Aziraphale’s words- as if she’s found herself convinced although can’t understand why. And then with an angry twirl, jewellery everywhere, she spins round and marches back towards the party. 

Dodders sags, puts his face in his hands. Bingy puts an arm around him and escorts him inside. "Come on, old chap, let’s go get changed and show our faces. Just for a few minutes."

Aziraphale turns and gives Crowley a look- and just for a moment, it’s like they’re back to normal again. 

“Oh, yes,” he says to himself, and to Tilly. “I think we can lighten the atmosphere just a little.”

***

Roughly half an hour later, Crowley descends the stairs of the stately home, arm-in-arm with Tilly Topping. 

She’s borrowed one of Tilly’s dresses.

Toni likes to wear black. Tilly likes to wear black, too. But as it just so turns out, Tilly also likes to shake things up a little now and then, and has brought with her a more summery dress, a dress that’s white and shining and has tassels everywhere. That is the dress that Toni Crowley wears as she descends the stairs, wearing her own miracled heels and jewellery. (Some dresses just can’t be conjured as nicely as having the real thing.)

“You look better in that than I do,” Tilly says with a sigh. “It’s no surprise, you have legs for days, Toni.”

“Don’t usually do white, but I think on this occasion it works.”

“Nice, posh garden party like this? Of course. You have to dress appropriately, don’t you. Can’t be embarrassing everyone.”

They share a look when Tilly says this, then burst out laughing. 

They walk through the morning room to the back porch. Jules is there by himself on a garden chair looking bored rigid- though he immediately perks up seeing Tilly. Dodders and Bing aren’t here yet, neither is Aziraphale or Xeno. Lottie is talking to the Doddering-Heights parents, smiling nervously but looking beautiful in a yellow tea dress. The party is quiet. Although, ‘party’ is a rather generous term for this; a lawn full of old people eating strawberries. Drinking champagne-

_Ah,_ Crowley thinks. _Xeno. He must be hiding upstairs somewhere._

She removes himself from Tilly’s grasp, just for a moment, mutters, “I’ll be back in a minute,” then goes back inside.

She’s only made it as far as the morning room when she sees Aziraphale coming down the stairs, sighing to himself. They lock eyes, and Crowley freezes for a moment. Aziraphale does too. Then, Crowley corrects herself, saunters towards Aziraphale. 

“Seen Xenophon?”

“I just gave him my room,” Aziraphale explains lightly, gesturing upwards. “Mine’s on the other side of the house. Bit quieter.”

“Ah,” Crowley nods. “Good.”

“Seems like he’s had a bit of a day.”

“Understatement.”

They simply stand in the corridor and say nothing, looking at each other and trying to figure out what comes next. The sound of people’s voices drifting inside, the place lit up with late afternoon light. And Aziraphale looks amazing. By no means is this moment relaxed or easy; neither one of them know where they are with each other. But Crowley takes a moment to appreciate the way Aziraphale stands there in this quiet corridor, aside from all the people. Aziraphale is so soft, so gentle when he’s alone, like a water-colour painting.

“You look lovely,” Aziraphale remarks awkwardly. “I don’t see you in white often.”

Crowley looks away, leans against the wall. Crosses one leg over the other and cocks a dismissive shoulder. “I don’t wear it often. And I don’t see you wearing black often. Looks good on you.”

Aziraphale’s brows raise and he looks down at his suit. White bow-tie, waistcoat and shirt beneath a black jacket, looking incredibly smart. “Oh. Oh, thank you. Yes. I just sort of,” he waves a hand. “Made it up on the spot.”

“Mm. This is Tilly’s dress, the rest I conjured. Don’t know if the jewellery matches, really.”

It’s such an inane thing to say. Such a stupid conversation. But she has nothing else to say, what are they meant to say? She can’t keep up with Aziraphale’s mixed-bloody-signals. 

“Oh, no, you look… you’re just right as you are, Crowley.”

It’s such a simple statement, and yet it leaves her speechless. It tears down the foundations of everything Crowley’s ever known. Everything about herself, where she fits in this universe, in this ineffable plan- her mind roars with the sound of it all tumbling down. It’s the first time anyone has assessed Crowley using terms other than Good and Bad. It’s the first time anyone’s seen Crowley as an individual, separate from it all. Not ‘too good’, not ‘not good enough’ but- _just right as you are._

Crowley stares. 

Aziraphale stares back, eyes widening in alarm. Then:

“I should probably… yes.”

He bustles past her, leaving her standing in the corridor and watching Aziraphale’s figure recede. She watches him wave uncomfortably at Lottie, who cocks her head in a gesture for him to come save her from Dodders’ parents. Crowley closes her eyes, and takes a deep breath. 

She steps back outside and finds Tilly, talking with Jules. 

“I’m back,” she says. 

“Hello again. Where did you disappear?”

“Just wanted to check on Xeno.”

“Is he alright?” Jules asks.

She nods. “Yeah, Aziraphale took him somewhere quiet.” 

“You look very nice,” Jules adds. 

“It’s my dress,” Tilly clarifies. “Nice, innit?”

“I suppose,” he shrugs. Then, “Toni, are you going to tell the others?”

“Tell them what,” she replies distantly. She’s watching Aziraphale, watching him distract the parents with conversation whilst Lottie makes her escape. He’s gesticulating wildly and nervously, and the Doddering-Heights parents are staring at him in bafflement.

“That you’re both Toni and Crowley,” Jules expands.

She hums, twists her lips. “No. Their brains are too small to contain that kind of knowledge. They’ll explode.”

“They’re so _thick_,” Tilly laughs. “I mean, for God’s sake, it’s the _twenties_.”

Crowley isn’t really listening, because now she’s scanning the crowd. The atmosphere is tense. It’s unpleasant and horribly _proper_. Dodders and Bingy have emerged now. She’d thought it would be impossible to imagine Dodders as anything but an exuberant puppy, and yet here he is, tail between his legs. Bing close by his side, not giving any of the guests so much as a smile. The parents catch sight of Dodders, look as if they want to call him over or march up to him themselves. But Aziraphale steps in their line of sight, laughs loudly and nervously, flapping about even more than before. 

A perfectly tense, snobby atmosphere, just waiting to be broken.

Yes, it’s time to shake things up. 

Tilly lays an arm on her shoulder, leaning into her. “Alright, partner,” she says through a smile. “Let’s scandalise the locals. What’s the plan?”

Crowley nods to herself. “I’ll take the band. You take the dancing.”

“You’re on, sarge.”

Tilly sweeps away, culotte trousers billowing. Lottie’s just coming up the porch steps to join them, when Tilly takes her hand. “Come on, darlin’, let’s go frighten some old people.”

They disappear into the crowd, hand in hand, and Crowley smiles. 

And Crowley tells herself that planning to ruin a perfectly proper party by traumatising some aged bastards is just for the sake of being a little bit demonic. But as she watches the way Dodders’ chest rises and falls in panic, she knows that it’s more than that. She knows she’s only pretending to be a demon, always has done. She knows her motives have always been too pure.

Nonetheless, she rubs her hands together and makes her way to the band. 

***

Roughly an hour later, the music is much raunchier. It hadn’t been difficult to persuade the band; they’d seemed just as bored by the previously prescribed music as the rest of them. 

Tilly and Lottie are dancing together, hand in hand, spinning each other around and laughing. Many of the guests watch in confusion and disdain. Meanwhile, Crowley’s tempted the staff to refill the glasses unnecessarily regularly so that the party can get considerably more pissed much faster. Miracled a table of strawberries and cream all over a group of all men leering over Lottie. And Crowley had been about to do something similar to the men saying nasty things about Tilly, but the others were already on top of that. It’s nice to see the protective, almost older-sibling attitude that Dodders, Bing, and Jules have with Tilly- getting there before Crowley could and warning said nasty men to _stop being so vulgar, thank you very much_. 

That’s not to say that Crowley’s work is done. 

He’s started a little game. He’s gone up to change his outfit several times. Crowley has gone around the party introducing himself as Anthony Crowley in a very smart white tuxedo. And then returned wearing the white dress again, introducing herself as _Toni- charmed, I’m sure._ Now, he’s Anthony again. 

It’s been truly entertaining seeing the confusion on people’s faces.

He’s watching with a glass of champagne- a little drunk himself, actually- as Dodders picks up a croquet mallet and bounds onto the lawn, Bing in tow looking absolutely delighted (and besotted). 

“I say, Crowley!” Dodders shouts over to him from across the party. 

Everyone stares, scandalised by this terrible behaviour. Crowley smirks. “What?”

“Care for a game of croquet!”

“Sure.”

“Where’s your sister? I just saw her here, what a strange thing, for your sister to be here, Crowley. Did you invite her?”

Bing gives Crowley a weary look and shakes his head. _So Bing’s figured it out now,_ Crowley things. _Took him long enough._

“Yep,” he replies. “Oh, yeah, I invited her, hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all old chap! Smashing! Can’t believe she got to Devon so quickly from London!”

Dodders haphazardly swings a croquet mallet and Bing laughs giddily at him, obviously very drunk. And the Doddering-Heights parents look horrified. Embarrassed beyond belief, all the while giving their guests awkward smiles. Crowley makes his way over towards the croquet, steps through the crowd that’s been stunned to silence. He gives them all a regal wave. 

“CROWLEY!” Dodders announces loudly and enthusiastically, like he’s forgotten all about him in the thirty seconds it took for Crowley to get there. He throws his croquet mallet in the air. Bing catches it, shaking his head to himself. “I’m so happy you-” Hiccup. “- joined!”

“Happy to help in whatever capacity I can,” he replies seriously.

“Let’s play croquet! Have you got a mallet?”

“No.”

Dodders points over his shoulder. “There should be more in the outhouse.”

Crowley hadn’t realised there’s an outhouse. He peers through the trees and sees a little cottage nestled under a cedar tree. 

Bing shakes his head again, picks up a mallet from the pile. “Not to worry, old sport, I have one for you here.”

Crowley takes it. Then Bing leans in.

“I don’t know how you did all this,” he mutters in Crowley’s ear. “But thank you.”

They share a look, and Crowley just nods. Bing slaps him on the shoulder, and goes to Dodders’ side. Crowley stands there with his mallet, feels the smile sliding off his face.

He looks over his shoulder.

Aziraphale’s doing a fine job of distracting the others. Talking to someone about 19th century literature and leaving them in the dust. Crowley measures the taut line between his brows, the way his smile flicks on and off; he’s clearly not enjoying the conversation, but he’s doing it for their benefit.

Aziraphale’s eyes meet his. He looks away, sniffing diffidently and going to join the other two.

When he turns around, instead, Jules and Tilly are there. On either side of him like security guards.

Crowley turns to both of them. Champagne in one hand, mallet in the other. “What. You’re. Is this an ambush?”

“You need to tell him,” Jules starts.

“That you love him,” Tilly continues.

Crowley growls.

“That’s not your business.”

“It is when we have to see you both pining and staring at each other all the time,” Tilly exclaims, slapping him in the chest. “Poor Jules has had to put up with the rest of us, now you two, as well.”

Jules nods soberly.

“I’m not!” Crowley scoffs. Drops the mallet and downs his drink. He makes an exaggerated _ah_ before finishing. “I’m not having this conversation. Two of you can fuck right off.”

Crowley turns round and makes for the house again. Tilly laughs raucously and calls, “You’re only fooling yourself!”

He ignores her. He ignores the way Aziraphale’s frowning inquisitively at him, too. He ignores all of it.

***

She comes back ten minutes later as Toni, heels on, lipstick on, and takes the stage.

This whole day has been non-fucking-stop. Aziraphale’s mood, Crowley’s feelings, the company, the outfit changes, everything. Nothing in her mind will sit still, her stomach is churning and her heart flutters anxiously and she’d like it if, just for one second, there wasn’t _chaos_. Which is ironic, since she’s the one who’d sort of made this party so chaotic. But what she really needs is a sit down and a nap. Maybe for a decade. The last decade-long nap Crowley’d had was very refreshing.

The band, at least, had been more than happy to let the strange woman in a white flapper dress step onto the stage imperiously and start playing the piano. The pianist she’s displaced is leaning against the top of the piano and grinning, enjoying her playing enormously. It’s loud and raucous and completely inappropriate, and the guests are beginning to leave. Old couples linked arm in arm, muttering disdainfully to each other and hurrying to their cars.

Mrs Doddering-Heights looks horrified. She looks like she might burst into tears. Father looks resigned to it all, drinking a hefty glass of red wine.

Crowley finishes her song- a pretty raunchy one, at that- and makes a little bow. Cocks her hip and bats her lashes fake-coyly. The original guests give a mixed response; impressed; baffled; offended; politely clapping. Meanwhile Dodders is whooping and shouting _WOOF!_, Bing is smacking him on the arm, Jules is smiling and nodding like a proud father. Tilly and Lottie are clapping the loudest, Tilly whistling between her fingers and punching the air.

Aziraphale is smiling. Smiling softly and looking at Crowley like he has no idea Crowley’s looking back.

Rather than dwelling on this fact, Crowley hops off stage and makes her way to Tilly. She can’t cope with Aziraphale right now. If he wants space? He can have his space.

At least, Crowley’s trying to make her way to the others- she’s halfway through placing a cigarette in a long, slender holder- but a hand on her arm stops her.

She turns around slowly. Through her sunglasses, she sees an old man. A general with a big moustache, red cheeks. Hand on her arm.

“I say,” he begins.

Crowley sighs and pouts.

“I _say_,” he repeats, looking her up and down. “You really are quite the erm. _Performer._”

Crowley smiles. And the poor bastard completely misinterprets that smile.

_He_ thinks that smile means: _oh yes, thank you sir, what a compliment, oho, I couldn’t possibly, you handsome fella._

What that smile _actually_ means is: _you have no idea how many places I’m about to break your arm for touching me._

The hand winds right to the small of Crowley’s back, along the curve of her spine. And her wolfish grin grows. She takes a deep breath, steps closer, prepares to show her fangs and say something suitably threatening. But she’s rudely interrupted from biting this stranger’s head off- literally- when he doubles over in pain.

This has nothing to do with Crowley. She frowns at him, head cocked, leaning backwards. 

And then, she sees Aziraphale’s heel directly on the man’s instep. She sees Aziraphale push the man roughly upright and say, quite sweetly:

“Oh dear, I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you there. How terribly painful that must be.” Then more quietly, for only them to hear, “_We’ll be having none of that, thank you._”

Crowley stares in fascination. Pinned to the spot. Aziraphale watches with a prim smile as the old man stumbles away, wheezing. The angel seems to have no regret, utterly pleased with himself for crippling an old war veteran. And it’s not as if Crowley doesn’t know that he’s capable of these things; that he’s capable of much, much worse. That his power is arguably greater than Crowley’s. That he only ever shows this side of himself on rare occasions. But now, it’s on her behalf.

Aziraphale looks at Crowley, eyes softening the moment their gazes meet.

Crowley shivers. Mouth hanging open uselessly. 

And then Aziraphale straightens out his suit jacket, turning the other way. Expression hardening again. Then, without another word, he disappears. Crowley watches him leave as he picks up another drink from a waiter and goes to watch Dodders, Bing and Tilly play a messy game of croquet- joining Lottie who’s sitting the grass and watching with a dopey smile beside Jules.

All of this happens before Crowley gets the chance to say thank you.

It makes something sink in her.

***

Fifteen minutes later, after another very angry costume change, Crowley returns to the croquet game, takes Aziraphale’s side, mutters gruffly: “Can I talk to you a sec?”

Aziraphale looks at him with a look of surprise. Then a nervous smile. Crowley hates it when Aziraphale smiles like that around him. It doesn’t feel right. The croquet game continues, most of the guests have gone, the band is playing still, and all of it fades into the background as Crowley tries to read Aziraphale’s cagey expression.

The angel nods, and the two of them step aside, a small distance away from the others. Aziraphale looks at him, lips pursed, brows knitted nervously.

Crowley stuffs his hands in his pockets and sighs.

“Whatever it is that I did, or said, I’m sorry. There.” Crowley looks the other way. “Can we go back to normal now, please?”

Aziraphale opens his mouth, closes it. Crowley watches the cogs whir inside his head, watches him panic. Evening sun in his eyes, in his hair. 

And then he says: “I forgive you.”

All Crowley can do is stare. It’s like a punch to the chest. “Excellent. Right, then.”

He has to leave. He can’t look at him for a second longer- just, the _unbelievable_ ignorance. Crowley realises in that second that Aziraphale really has no idea, no idea at all how much he loves him. Not even an inkling. 

He _has_ to leave, but then Aziraphale grabs him by the arm. 

“Although,” he starts, then sighs. He looks so pained. The happy sounds of the others playing croquet, this beautiful, sunlit garden; it’s all too stark a contradiction. “Although- for the record, I’m the one who should be sorry. You didn’t _actually_ do anything wrong. I was just behaving like a beast.”

The party continues on around them, people laughing and the sound of Lottie and Tilly making a scene of some sort in the background. Crowley can’t focus on any of it; he can’t focus on anything right now. Not even the feeling of the hand on his arm, not even the words Aziraphale’s just said. All he can focus on is the vibrating anger and humiliation and hurt. 

Aziraphale lets go.

“It’s just. Sometimes I find things… I find _us_ a bit overwhelming,” Aziraphale continues. “In that minute, at the beach, I was overwhelmed.”

The words drift towards him, and he hears them, but he doesn’t absorb them. He can’t, he feels too hard and brittle to absorb anything right now. And so the moment hangs between them, the music continuing to play.

Then, Crowley nods. Emphatically this time. So emphatically it makes him dizzy. He purses his lips, huffs through his nose. “Yeah. Yes, I’d thought as much.”

And he leaves. He wades through the crowd, grabs a champagne flute from a waiter so aggressively he manages to pour a bit down his suit. 

“Where are you going?” Aziraphale calls weakly, voice breaking into a whisper.

“Somewhere where I’m less _whelming_.”

And so Crowley goes, works through the crowd with head ducked. He goes to find somewhere quiet, somewhere he can curl up and untie the knot of tension in his chest, ease the pain of tears building in his throat without anyone watching.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dont worry, i've posted the next chapter too- go on, alleviate the angst!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> welcome to the s m u t c h a p t e r
> 
> if you're good with the odd smooch but not comfortable which much else, i'd say stop reading at:
> 
> **"The music plays distantly as if on the quiet setting of a gramophone".**
> 
> Although, that being said, I intentionally don't make my sex scenes very explicit because we have nb characters! So- hopefully people will find this fairly tasteful.

Aziraphale feels just awful. 

There had been this one time, in Scotland. They were on the outskirts of Inverness, and Aziraphale had been expected to get on a horse. The weather was dreary, that sort of not-quite rain that’s more like a mist than anything else. The view would have been lovely, if he could actually see it through the clouds and fir forests. There were lots of angry men shouting to do this or that or march that way, and Aziraphale was expected, through it all, to _get on a horse._ And the trouble with that is that Aziraphale can’t get on a horse without a small miracle. 

And Crowley had been there. He can’t remember off the top of his head why, there’s so much of human history to keep track of. But Crowley had been there and he’d ridden alongside Aziraphale’s horse, looking at him with raised brows and quiet amusement. Aziraphale had been prepared to tell him to _stop staring, I’m fine, thank you,_ and was building up the energy to miracle himself up onto the pretty dunn mare that he’d been assigned. 

But Crowley had leaned down, pulled him upwards, then shoved him onto the horse. 

It should have been embarrassing. Mortifying, really, to have your hereditary enemy forcibly plonk you on a horse. It should have been embarrassing, but it wasn’t, because Aziraphale had been so bashful, so flustered by Crowley’s restrained little smile. And then he’d galloped away. So heroic that Aziraphale forgot he was a demon. 

That’s usually how Aziraphale reacts when Crowley rides in to save him- metaphorically or literally.

But today- recently, things have been different. _Everything_ has been different between them, and it’s torture. This morning Aziraphale had behaved like an absolute child. He’d known it whilst it was happening, watching it like an out of body experience. But it’d happened anyway, and he felt like had no control over what came out of his mouth.

He’s not sure why he snapped at Crowley at the beach. He thinks that it’s because he’s frightened. No- absolutely terrified. Because things really are changing between them. It’s obvious that they’re getting closer, it’s obvious that they’re breaking this tacit treaty between them, it’s obvious in the way Crowley looks at him and it’s obvious in the way Aziraphale looks back. And it’s terrifying, because it’s not allowed. On so many levels- celestial and personal- this should not be allowed. 

An angel and a demon, winning stuffed bears for each other. An angel and a demon, saving each other’s lives again and again and again. An angel and a demon, in love. 

And their friendship. This easy, comfortable agreement that they’ve had for millennia, it’s at risk. He’d thought about it all night, he’d gone downstairs this morning thinking about it, and he’d gone to the beach thinking about it, ready to jump out of his skin as soon as Crowley so much as looked at him. 

It’s no secret anymore; they both love each other. And that’s no good at all. 

But then- oh, but then it _is_ good. It’s wonderful. It’s perfect and glorious and it feels like God herself intended it to be so. The way it makes Aziraphale’s heart sing, it must be right, it must be. 

But it isn’t. 

And poor old Crowley- he’d gotten stuck in the middle of this internal conflict. He’d received the brunt of Aziraphale’s denial and anxiety and self-directed punishment. Oh, poor Crowley, 

Aziraphale is thinking this as he’s listening to some other old fart talk about their perfect grandchild at the Doddering-Heights garden party. He’d much rather be playing croquet, but he also can’t bear to be around the others, be at the receiving end of their knowing looks. So he’s here, standing in silence, not listening at all but smiling and pretending he is, for Dodders’ benefit. If it keeps them all off his back. 

He can’t stop thinking about Crowley’s face just now. The way it had fallen when he’d said _I forgive you_. Oh, what a stupid thing to say. He’d regretted it the moment he said it. He can’t stop thinking about the way he’d sauntered through the crowd with a dismissive wave. Aziraphale thought he’d gone to get changed again, but he hasn’t come back since. 

Sickening regret makes his throat close up and he sighs- more like a choke. He hadn’t even stuck around with Crowley after he’d trodden on that horrible man’s foot. He hadn’t even given Crowley the chance to- 

Aziraphale closes his eyes and steadies his breathing. He’s done a wonderful job of ruining a lovely weekend. 

The music is still playing- something slow and sad and pining, mournful trumpets _wah-wah-wah_ing. The band members at least look a lot more relaxed than they did at the beginning of the party. The remaining party goers do, too- as if this was all a lot more interesting than they’d anticipated. Aziraphale thinks the two people talking at him are the only boring ones left- most of the worst have gone by now.

And his eyes drift to the others playing croquet. Bing and Dodders talking with their heads together. A bashful smile on Dodders’ lips; something giddy and disbelieving on Bing’s face. 

Aziraphale smiles. _It’s about time._

He’s staring a little too long, clasping the champagne flute in his hand a little too tightly; it’s Jules that snaps him out of it, catching his eye. 

Jules’ gaze flicks to the back doors of the house. 

Aziraphale looks round. Sees nothing, looks back at Jules. _What?_ he mouths. 

_Go find Crowley,_ Jules mouths, expression serious even when drunk. 

Aziraphale sighs again, disgruntled. The guests he’d been humouring till now have noticed they’ve lost his attention, are moving the conversation elsewhere. Meanwhile, Jules raises his eyebrows and nods his head towards the house. 

It’s not like Aziraphale wasn’t going to go find Crowley anyway. He’s been building up the courage for the past ten minutes. But now Jules is staring at him, eyes wide and deliberate. Aziraphale shakes his head to himself and huffs, turning and making his way inside. 

The moment he steps into the corridor, where it’s considerably cooler and quieter, he finds himself wondering what to do next. He lingers, floorboards creaking beneath his feet, the overcrowded walls making him claustrophobic. He places his champagne flute on a side table and drifts further into the bowels of the stately home like a ghost. 

The house has that strange, liminal feeling that it did yesterday morning- sun pouring through the windows and a feeling of anticipation and love and life. Something magical and intangible, something that makes his skin prickle pleasantly. 

He doesn’t know why his feet take him to the library; they simply do. Perhaps it’s Ariadne’s thread, leading him to the middle of the maze- Crowley at the centre of his tangled, labyrinthine thoughts. When he opens the large oak door, he finds him there. Sat on the leather sofa with his face in his hands. 

Aziraphale sees how wretched he looks and freezes in the doorway. Only for a moment- as soon as he gathers himself again he closes the door behind him. Privacy is very much needed right now. 

Tufts of copper red hair poke out between the demon’s long fingers. He doesn’t move, though Aziraphale’s sure he’s heard him. In fact, he looks so incredibly still- the room silent and still like time has stopped.

“Crowley?” he says, quietly. His voice sounds loud in this large, empty room. 

And then Crowely sweeps up onto his feet- the tails of his tuxedo jacket slightly wrinkled from sitting on them. White suit with black lapels, black shirt and tie- the direct reverse of Aziraphale’s outfit, he realises suddenly. They provide such a strange contrast to this old, dusty library. Aziraphale watches him wander aimlessly, back facing him. Floorboards moaning under his shoes, the light through the large windows fractured by his body. 

Crowley throws his arms out wide, taking in the scene. 

“This place,” he says. “Quiet. I can see why you like libraries.”

Aziraphale blinks at Crowley’s back. Shakes his head to himself dumbly. Then, “Yes. I suppose it’s nice that they’re quiet.”

Crowley’s arms fall to his sides again. “You come here to… I dunno. Tell me to shove off again?”

That hurts. Aziraphale clasps his hands together, looks at the floor. Well worn by centuries of feet. A Jacobean house; he remembers the 17th century well. He hadn’t been anywhere near Devon in that period, though. 

“No,” he replies eventually, sounding more light-hearted than he feels. A small smile on his face. “I came to… check in on you, I suppose. And. Apologise. Again.”

“Don’t do that,” Crowley replies instantly. “No, no use in apologising, what’s the point in apologising? You and me, we don’t do those things. We don’t say these things out loud.”

“Perhaps we should.”

Crowley looks like he’s about to turn and look at him then. He doesn’t, merely moves his head slightly in his direction. Aziraphale wishes he could see his face. Instead, he sees his back- the planes of his shoulders and the way the light creates a haze through the dust in front of his image. 

“There’s a reason we don’t,” Crowley says quietly, grimly. And then he extends his arms again, takes in the library. “All of these stories- all of these people, all of time. D’you think any of them have an answer for us? Do you think any of them know what it’s like for us? An angel and a demon, opposite sides, created to _destroy_ each other.” 

He turns a circle on the spot, arms outstretched, and Aziraphale sees his face now. He’s not wearing his glasses. Those gold eyes wide and tortured, looking up at the ceiling- at Heaven- as he paces through the library. 

Aziraphale watches by the door.

“D’you think anyone planned this? You and me, being in Devon together, at some party, pretending to be human? I mean, how could anyone plan this? It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Does it have to?”

“No, I suppose it doesn’t,” Crowley shrugs- too casually, not at all convincingly, “I suppose it doesn’t matter, only our lives, isn’t it? Only six thousand _SODDING WELL YEARS_ living on Earth and not knowing what the _BLASTED, WANKING_ point is.”

Aziraphale watches calmly as Crowley shouts this at this ceiling. 

“God Almighty, oh, Heavenly Mother, Hallowed Be Thy Name and all that. She made humans in her image and gave them all the instructions- gave us the instructions to give them, you remember-”

“I remember,” Aziraphale confirms. He walks further into the library.

“-They got all the choices, didn’t leave any for you and me, did She? She gave all of it to them. And for us- oh, well, we make one mistake and we’re damned for life. You’re not much better off than me, angel, you have to follow just as many orders as I do. Neither one of us has the free will they do, we’re- we’re trapped by the knowledge that we have to fulfill the ineffable plan, and yet it’s _fucking well_ ineffable, isn’t it? So- no guidelines. No assurance that it’ll be alright, don’t worry, sit tight, it’ll be over soon. Just. Wandering round and waiting for the celestial war, waiting for- Aziraphale, Christ, how do you cope with it? How do you cope with not knowing the right thing? Not knowing what we’re meant to do?”

“I ignore it,” he replies honestly. The first honest thing he’s said all day. 

Crowley snorts. He doesn’t look at Aziraphale, but he’s nodding with wide eyes. “Oh, yeah. That, that’s what you do. I almost forgot, how could I forget? You turn a blind eye and pretend that anything you’re asked to do is pure, no questions asked.”

“And you torture yourself. And make speeches like a thespian.”

Crowley sighs theatrically, ruffles his hair and starts pacing the library again. Aziraphale watches, feeling strangely calm. He knows these moods of Crowley’s well. And he understands where it’s come from, this time. He thinks he understands, and it feels a little like the world has clicked into place. Crowley may be having yet another existential crisis, but Aziraphale feels, at least, like he knows what comes next. A calm before a storm. Hopefully a storm of the good variety. 

Meanwhile, Crowley runs a hand along the surface of the shelves. Cabinets of old books are locked, and below, open bookshelves. He hops up onto the surface of the lower shelves and sits there, dangling his legs. Turns his eyes up to the ceiling, then around the room. Anywhere but Aziraphale. 

“I see why you like it in here,” Crowley says again. “Easy to get lost in their stories. They have plots and a start and an end.” He pauses, lets out a long breath between pouted lips. “Their- in their stories, they have knights in shining armour who save damsels in distress. But that’s not real life, is it. Real life, you get… you get demons making fools out of themselves and angels telling them to sod off.”

Aziraphale pauses in the middle of the room, gives Crowley a wide berth, keeps his distance. He watches the way he drums his fingers nervously against the bookcase and then hops onto his feet again, making a circuit around the room. Orbiting Aziraphale, who stands and turns to measure him as he paces. 

“They get happy endings. You just get me,” Crowley snarls. 

His self hatred is horribly clear. It makes Aziraphale sigh and step towards him. 

“You don’t find stories about people like us,” Crowley keeps going, “You don’t get instructions, what to do or what not to do. We just have to _blunder around_ blindly and hope we won’t get _smited_.”

“Smote.”

“Smote, smited, _shited_, I don’t care.”

“I know.”

He smacks the surface of the bookshelf loudly. Infuriated, anguished and staring up towards the Heavens. “Why doesn’t She...?”

“I don’t know, my dear.”

By now, Aziraphale is walking just behind Crowley. A good few steps behind, but close enough that should Crowley stop, he would have to as well. Aziraphale runs his hand along the shelves, following the trail where Crowley’s has been. He watches the way Crowley’s neck curves as he turns his head towards the cabinets, looking up at the rows of books with wide, wan eyes. 

“I make the same mistakes over and over again,” Crowley mutters. 

“And what mistakes are those?”

“Oh,” he replies casually. “Going after you time and time again. Overwhelming you, going too fast for you. Chasing you when you never asked for it.”

Aziraphale doesn’t answer. This is important. He feels he needs to let this sink in before he comes up with a response. His response has to be good, has to be enough to convince Crowley and settle this mood once and for all. As he considers his words, he watches the way the light catches his hair, makes the red almost look gold in this light. His eyes match. His fingers trace the wood of the bookshelves lightly, so lightly. There’s something so fragile in the gesture. 

And Aziraphale says: “I think, deep down, you’ve always sensed that I wanted you to come. To find me. I think you’ve always sensed that I want you there, even if I never said it.”

Crowley pauses. His hand flattens against the top of the bookshelf, and his shoulders move with the depth of his breathing. 

“Don’t you think?” Aziraphale prompts.

“I’m,” he hesitates.

Aziraphale smiles. Steps closer, till they’re only a few feet away.

“I’m,” Crowley tries again. “I don’t know. Did you? Do you?”

“Always.”

Crowley is silent. His head moves with minute nods, like he’s trying to reason with himself. Then he turns his head towards the book cabinets again, eyes darting in Aziraphale’s direction and measuring their proximity. Like a nervous animal. 

“Could’ve said so earlier,” he mutters. Vulnerability clear beneath the gruffness of his voice.

Aziraphale continues to smile to himself. He smiles in the way angels do when they’re watching something unfold that they’d always known would happen; the smile God had when she created Earth and deemed it good. “I know, I should have. I’m not very forward, though.”

“No,” Crowley whispers. 

Aziraphale comes to a stop at Crowley’s side, and they both look up at the rows and rows of shelves. Crowley turns to face the shelves properly so their shoulders brush. And he miracles a locked cabinet open, takes out a book.

“Catullus. See?”

It is indeed a collection of Catullus poems. “I see.”

“You-” Crowley chokes on his words, makes a series of garbled noises as he turns the old pages. “You ever meet him?”

“No.” He humours him. Carefully. 

“‘Spose he was ours, not yours. He. He was a strange one, Catullus. Yeah.”

“Yes?” 

“Mmm. So- so- if you want me to come to Devon with you and miracle you out of the Bastille and dine at the Ritz with you, why is it overwhelming? Why do you put up with me if? If it’s? Why do you…?”

“For all the reasons you were saying before. It’s complicated for you and me. And, well, if it’s overwhelming sometimes, it’s not always in the bad way, dear. It’s sometimes the taking-my-breath-away type of overwhelming.”

Aziraphale has no idea where this bout of bravery has come from. Perhaps it’s realising that he has to be brave, now; with Crowley so fragile, he has to be the brave one for once. Perhaps it’s because Crowley has always been the one to take the steps towards the middle, and now, Aziraphale realises it’s his turn. 

Either way, it leaves Crowley speechless with surprise. Staring down at the book of Catullus with wide, panicked eyes. He’s been going on about how terrible it is not to have any guidelines; there are certainly no guidelines for this conversation. For them. 

“The thing. The thing about Catullus,” he stalls. Pokes the page, “Is he wrote across too many genres. Politics, love, comedy. Tackled too much. Should’ve. Should’ve. Should’ve stuck to the love poems.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says with genuine interest. Continues to humour him with a quiet smile.

Crowley points at a particular poem. “Like this one. See?”

“I see,” Aziraphale replies quietly. 

Crowley clears his throat, says even more quietly, almost a whisper, “This was where he. Where he.”

“Where he peaked?”

“Mm. Peaked, that’s it, peaked.”

“_Odi et amo._”

“_I hate and I love,_” Crowley translates. “_Perhaps you ask why I feel this way. I do not know, but I feel it happening inside of me, and it burns._”

“Very dramatic.”

“Very fucking relatable.”

They both laugh quietly to themselves. Not so much laughter as breaths rushing out of one another, a shared moment of not knowing what to say. They both stare at the book, arms touching. The room absolutely silent; music playing distantly outside. 

“Crowley.”

“You. It’s. The word choice he uses here is weird, isn’t it- Catullus is- I mean- Ah, fuck. I can’t. Sorry. My brain isn’t working.”

“Crowley.”

He finally looks up at Aziraphale. Their faces turned towards one another for the first time during this whole conversation, and Aziraphale feels his confidence waver. Those gold eyes watching him, impossibly wide and gaze flitting about his face. 

_For once in your life, Aziraphale,_ he thinks to himself. _For once in your long existence, do something brave._

He braces himself, takes a deep breath and leans to leave a kiss on Crowley’s cheek. It’s a chaste thing; a kiss on the cheek is all it is. 

But the way he lingers there isn’t. The way he leaves his lips against his skin for a moment too long, the way he hovers there, cheek pressed against Crowley’s. He feels Crowley’s breath against his ear, and it sends a shiver down his spine. His eyes flutter shut and he holds himself there. Not wanting to move. Not wanting to break the moment. 

“Thank you,” he says, ever so quietly.

He hears Crowley open his mouth to speak. Swallow to wet his dry mouth. “For what?”

“For all of it. For all of it, Crowley. For everything you’ve done since the beginning.”

And he lingers there a moment longer, not wanting it to end. The silence of this space of theirs, this fraction of time theirs and theirs alone. This pivotal point in their timeline, the crux of it all. Everything hangs off it, Aziraphale feels the weight of all they’ve shared till now tipping the scales towards the next moment. 

So, he leans away again. Just a little. Just enough that their noses still brush. His eyes are closed but he swears he can see. He swears he can feel Crowley watching, ever curious. 

“You know I’d do anything, don’t you,” Crowley asks, voice breaking. “Not just Devon and crepes and Shakespeare plays.”

“I know,” Aziraphale whispers. 

His heart breaks and sings simultaneously. Fracturing into a million angelic pieces for all the years they’ve lost. And for all the ones they’ll still have together. 

They stay there, noses touching. Making his skin tingle. Hearing their breaths. Sharing the same air. The feeling of everything until now culminating, reaching its peak; anticipation so overwhelming that it makes him feel calm. Like a ringing sound so high-pitched it goes beyond the point of hearing. 

Aziraphale isn’t sure who closes the gap between them. It doesn’t matter in the end. Crowley’s lips are pressed against his, soft and uncertain. Holding back. And then, gone again.

And Aziraphale knows that it’s him this time, it’s him that lays a hand on Crowley’s arm and leans in again. Another small, experimental kiss. 

Both of them leaving the smallest kisses, testing the moment out, proving to themselves it’s real. Kissing like they’re playing chess. _Your go. My go. Your go again._

And at some point Aziraphale takes a deep, decided breath and pulls Crowley in closer, a hand on his cheek. 

And Crowley responds by pressing his lips firmly against Aziraphale’s, a hand in his hair. _Yes, this is happening, I’m kissing you,_ that gestures says. 

Aziraphale’s more than happy with that. 

The music plays distantly as if on the quiet setting of a gramophone. People laughing outside. Crowley’s hands cupping his face possessively, a strangely territorial gesture considering how gently he kisses. 

And Aziraphale’s not really given kissing much consideration before. Or, rather, it’s not that he’s never thought about it- he has- it’s more that he’s viewed physical pleasures as all fairly similar, but some more preferable than others. A good chocolate pudding; some nice music to please the ears; a lover’s touch. All very much cut from the same cloth of human experiences. And Aziraphale’s never been as interested in kissing or wandering hands as he has been in gastronomy, for example. But, now that he’s kissing Crowley, he wonders if that’s because there’s only one person he’d ever really want to do this with. 

Yes, Aziraphale realises in that moment- Crowley’s teeth biting gently on his bottom lip, making him gasp- oh, yes, sex suddenly seems to him like a glass of sherry. It’s not something he’s ever really craved or wanted unless he’s on a sunny porch in Spain overlooking the sea, the temperature’s just right as he’s grazing happily on some Manchego cheese. But as soon as he’s on that sunny porch in Spain, he thinks, _ooh, do you know? A glass of sherry would really hit the spot just about now._ In this very moment, Crowley is his sunny porch in Spain. 

It makes his hands search for Crowley’s hair, his back, his jaw line, his neck. It makes him pull away with a deep breath, suddenly overwhelmed by this bizarre eureka moment. 

“Ah,” he says aloud.

Crowley gazes at him. Really, truly gazes at him. It’s a look Aziraphale thinks he’s noticed before, in the corner of his eye- but has slipped away from Crowley’s face before he’d had the chance to question it. “You- alright?”

“Yes, very,” Aziraphale breathes. “I hadn’t really expected that.”

“Neither had I.”

Their foreheads touch and they smile against each other’s lips. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says. Voice suddenly a little business like. “Crowley, what are your thoughts on sex?”

And that-

Well, that--

\--That makes Crowley pause. Because he doesn’t know how to answer him. He could tell him that his thoughts on sex are generally _eurgh_ unless, of course, it were with him. The idea of a stinky human wanting to something like that with him is- well, it’s _eurgh_\- but Aziraphale? With Aziraphale? 

Their celestial souls are already entwined. They have been from the start. All that’s left is their celestial bodies, if they ever felt like it, and Crowley doesn’t know whether to admit that he’s actually had a _lot_ of thoughts about that. 

Aziraphale’s looking at him with slightly raised brows, expectant and hopeful and sincere and all those lovely things that Crowley adores about him. 

“My thoughts?” he replies eventually, voice breaking. _Very smooth, well done, Crowley,_ he thinks. “My thoughts. I’ve not thought about it much-”

“Right,” Aziraphale agrees. “Same boat.”

“Although.”

“Although,” Aziraphale breathes. His eyes peering down at Crowley’s lips. 

“Although,” Crowley says. Swallows. “If there were anyone I would want to do it with…”

That look softens. Soppy and dopey and it makes Crowley huff.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” Aziraphale replies sweetly. 

And he’s going to reply, honestly, he had a response on his tongue, something biting and sarcastic and bantering like their usual conversation, but what comes out instead is a stream of air like he’s deflating- because Aziraphale’s fingers are stroking through his hair. 

“Huhhh,” he says, rather eloquently. 

“I’d’ve thought that a demon of temptation would have had more thoughts on the topic,” Aziraphale says gently, continuing to stroke his hair. 

_Christ,_ Crowley thinks to himself, feeling suddenly too hot. He’s never spontaneously combusted before, but he’s feeling flustered enough now that he might. “I… have thought about it. Just not…”

“Just not,” Aziraphale prompts. 

Leans in close so their lips graze, so the air between them mixes sweetly and he can almost taste him. Looking at him so innocently. Crowley knows better. If Aziraphale’s going to be any more smug about this he’s going to- 

“Jus’ not… not with anyone who isn’t you,” he whispers. 

Hands shaking as they cover over Aziraphale’s chest. 

Aziraphale smiles against the corner of his mouth. “I see.”

“Sssssh- _shut up_.”

Crowley pulls him by the lapel of his jacket and kisses him. Just to stop him talking and making him so hot and bothered. Just to wipe the smile off that horrible angelic face that he loves so much. And he pulls him with such force that they both fall back into the book case- Crowley’s back arched, backs of his legs pressed against the bottom shelves- Aziraphale crowding him against the books and grabbing onto what he can to regain balance- trapping Crowley- knocking the Catullus anthology onto the floor- his arms around Aziraphale’s neck- then his hands running down his back and under his jacket- tongue tasting the inside of his mouth-

And he _has_ thought about this. God, he has thought about this, in almost every way imaginable. He’s thought about sweeping him off his feet on Trojan battlefields; dragging him away somewhere quiet, away from the streets of Paris; under sakura blossoms in Edo; he’s thought about it in every corner of reality there is. This is the only corner he hadn’t imagined. Something unplanned and _spoken aloud_ and _real_.

Aziraphale leaning into him, pushing him against a bookcase. The sounds of him panting into his mouth. 

“Crowley,” he breathes.

“Shh- Fuck,” he responds. 

And he’s found himself lifted a little, onto the surface of the shelves so he’s sitting on the edge, Aziraphale standing between his legs, and Christ, the feeling of Aziraphale between his thighs is not something he thought he’d ever actually get to _live_-

“Fuck,” he says again. He hates how broken he sounds already.

But with Aziraphale’s hands underneath his waistcoat, stroking down his spine- with the feeling of Aziraphale’s soft hair beneath his fingers, how can he not be falling apart? So much mental energy has gone into holding himself together. A small kiss from Aziraphale was all it took to bring him crumbling down. 

It almost makes him angry- he’s infuriated that the angel has this affect on him. He kisses along Aziraphale’s jaw, runs his tongue along his neck and doesn’t bite, no, only gently kisses him there. A tickling, soft kiss that drags a quiet keening noise from Aziraphale’s mouth. Crowley hums triumphantly in response; he’s not the only one falling apart.

“Crowley, if we’re going to- _ah_\- if we’re going to do this let’s- let’s find somewhere more private.”

Crowley grumbles. “Why?”

“Because _anyone_ could walk in. I don’t want anyone-”

He traces his lips up his neck till his nose brushes his cheek, till he finds the square corner of his jaw and tastes him. Aziraphale leans closer into him, pants into his ear. Fists Crowley’s shirt. And there’s still so much of him left to taste.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale demands.

“Yeah. Yeah, no, you’re right, alright then.”

Someone blundering in right now would be genuinely awful. And more than that, he doesn’t want anyone else seeing him like this. So vulnerable. He also doesn’t want anyone else seeing Aziraphale like this. 

_Mine,_ the snake part of him hisses.

“Your room or mine,” he whispers into his ear. 

Aziraphale’s gone pliant against him, leaning between his legs and his hands gripping onto the back of his shirt. “I don’t- oh, wait-” he moves back and measures Crowley seriously. “It’ll have to be yours. Xeno’s in mine.”

Right. That would be awkward, he concedes to that. So, he nods. Raises his fingers and poises to snap.

And it’s only because he’s paranoid that he closes his eyes and mentally checks their surroundings; double checks his room is empty. But he’s glad he is paranoid right now, because when he scrunches his eyes shut and extends his aura to inspect the vacancy of his room, he finds that it isn’t, in fact, vacant at all. 

“Oh,” he says. And, seeing what’s going on in said room, he opens his eyes and shakes his head. “Oh. Oh, bloody Hell, no. Alright, plan C.”

“What? Why?”

“Tilly and Lottie are in there.”

Aziraphale frowns at him. Then, “Oh. No, I suppose that makes sense. Tilly has the single bed, and Lottie’s supposed to be sharing with Dodders. So.”

“So that leaves us with…” Crowley 

The two of them blink at each other, cogs whirring significantly slower than usual. Aziraphale’s hands resting on his chest. Crowley biting his lip and thinking. Aziraphale watching him biting his lip. 

“Outhouse,” he remembers.

“Outhouse?”

“There’s an outhouse.”

“Oh. Well, then. Lead on.”

Crowley nods, snaps his fingers. And-

“Oh!” Aziraphale exclaims quietly. 

The outhouse is a lot less dingy than Crowley had allowed himself to imagine. In fact, it’s like a proper home. One that hasn’t been lived in for a good few years- it’s gathered dust. But it’s also sort of furnished, too. As if a gamekeeper used to live here, before the war made it impossible for stately homes like this to be kept going. There aren’t many belongings- one or two photo frames so covered in dust that it’s impossible to see what’s there. But, once upon a time, it was nice here. 

The two of them are standing in the unlit room, the band music playing outside, the curtains half drawn so some of the people are just about visible through the old warped glass. And they take in their surroundings for a short moment, Crowley’s hands on Aziraphale’s upper arms, holding him close. Aziraphale’s pressed against his chest. 

Then, Crowley blows as if extinguishing candles, and the dust throughout the room lifts and disappears. The sofa on their left feels suddenly a lot more welcoming. Less like it would create a toxic cloud of dust the moment someone sits on it.

“Oh, well done,” Aziraphale commends. 

He’s watching the way Aziraphale’s eyes glance about the room, looking pleasantly surprised by this little discovery. Watches the way his eyes settle on Crowley again, eyes fluttering shut then opening again, lids just a little heavier. 

Crowley kisses him. Pulls him close by his arms and breathes him in. Feels Aziraphale soften under his grasp, melting into him a little, hands still pressed against his chest. Crowley wraps his arms around him and holds him. Kisses him with-

“Before we do this,” Aziraphale interrupts.

Crowley shuts his eyes and sighs to himself. “Go on?”

“I just want you to know,” he says earnestly, “in case it wasn’t clear- that. I love you.”

When Crowley doesn’t say anything, brain short-circuited, he continues. 

“I’ve loved you probably from the start, although, you know me, aha, I’m- not always very good at admitting something to myself, so I think I sort of, well, I did ignore it for a while and I just want you to know that if ever it wasn’t clear, I’m- I’m sorry, and I’m going to make it up to you any way that- Crowley-?”

Crowley takes his face in his hands and kisses him. Lips pressed together with certainty, assurance. Aziraphale makes a quiet, surprised hum. 

Then, pulling away, he replies, “Don’t apologise. Please- God, please don’t apologise. Nothing- nothing to apologise for, angel.”

“Well,” Aziraphale complains, forehead against Crowley’s, “I just felt I had to make it very plain. Because I’m not always particularly direct and, I do love you. So much.”

“Not as if I’m not guilty of the same thing,” Crowley replies. Feeling drunk and dizzy and tracing his thumb across Aziraphale’s cheek. “And- for the record, since we’re trying this ‘being plain with each other’ thing?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve. Ah. Angel.” He feels his heart protest. _No! It’s a secret, remember? He’s not meant to know! What if he runs?_ But he ignores it. “I’ve loved you,” he says slowly. Concentrating hard. “Since the second I saw you. I’ve loved you. With every stinking bit of my _shitty_ demonic soul. Since the very start. Since the wall.”

“Crowley.”

And then they’re kissing again. Crowley couldn’t possibly keep track of what either of them are doing; it feels like he’s drifting. Like he and Aziraphale are mixing, milk poured into a cup of tea. Like he’s not quite experiencing this physically yet, mind still in shock- feeling it from somewhere else. And yet it’s also so _real_. This moment, this feeling is undeniable. 

Aziraphale now takes Crowley’s hands and guides them to his suit jacket. Wordlessly shows him what he wants, just as he always does- whether it’s asking Crowley to miracle something better for him, or looking at him with those puppy dog eyes. Now, he asks him to unbutton his waistcoat by moving his hands there. And Crowley complies. He’s happy to. He’s more than happy to, feels drunk on disbelief. So drunk he can’t concentrate on kissing and unbuttoning at once- has to pull his lips away a little and take slow, shaking breaths to remind himself how to move his fingers. 

It gives Aziraphale the opportunity to rest his cheek against Crowley’s. Such a gentle gesture, so intimate and comforting that Crowley sighs. And Crowley thinks of how cruel the universe has been to them both, how much both of them need the simple feeling of just being _held_. 

He runs his hands up his chest and pushes off his waistcoat. It falls to the floor. 

And both of them seem to share the same thought, because they pause. Is there a bedroom? Does it matter? There’s a perfectly serviceable sofa just there. And Aziraphale takes the lead again- Crowley lets him, he can’t bear to take the lead himself and risk frightening him off, he can’t- and the angel pushes off his jacket and his waistcoat and slowly unbuttons his shirt. So painfully slowly. Cheek pressed against his. 

Crowley had always figured being undressed would feel vulnerable. He’d never thought it would feel so good. To be undone so affectionately, to feel so wanted. 

He finds himself being pulled down onto the sofa- Aziraphale sliding down onto it a little clumsily, laughing self-consciously against Crowley’s lips. Crowley follows him, kisses him deeper, doesn’t want to hear anything self-conscious right now. Just happy noises, please. 

They end up tangled on the sofa, Crowley’s legs everywhere, entwined around him, ever the snake.

And- fuck, the moment’s finally caught up with him. He’s totally aware of where is and what he’s doing, his brain feels like it’s back in his body now. He’s aware that he’s splayed on top of Aziraphale, yes, that person he’s been in love with since day one and imagined all _sorts_ of uncompromising positions with and- 

Right, where to begin? So much ground to cover, so much time to make up for. 

Rather than letting himself overthink it- he knows he will if he allows himself to- he kisses down Aziraphale’s neck. Kisses further than before, kisses down as far as his collar bone and undoes his shirt as he goes, finding more skin to taste, hands running along his sides and round to his back. 

And Aziraphale moans. Honest to God moans. 

That’s not a sound his mind could have conjured up authentically till now. The closest he’d come to hearing a sexual noise from Aziraphale was when they’d had brioche in Paris that time. It had almost given Crowley an aneurism just hearing that- and _now_, this _moan_. This sigh. Because of him, kissing down his chest. 

“Angel,” he whispers against his skin.

He feels Aziraphale’s fingers in his hair. 

He lets his hands move down to Aziraphale’s trouser zip. 

He feels his throat close up with nerves. He still can’t quite believe that-

“Angel,” he says again, propping his chin against Aziraphale’s shoulder. Says into his ear, “Angel, you’re sure you want to? ‘Cause it’s not important, this stuff. It’s just like anything else, I- I want to, but I can live without it.”

There’s a pause. Crowley’s hand hovers above Aziraphale’s waistband, and Aziraphale’s head pushes itself into the cushion of the sofa to view Crowley’s face. There’s a little frown.

“I’m sure,” he says, sounding confused. Then, aghast, “Are you? Because, if you’re not, Crowley, that’s absolutely fine, as you say we can both- we have lived perfectly well without it, we can do whatever you like. If. If I’m going too fast for you-”

“No,” Crowley interrupts, pushes himself up a little so he can see Aziraphale’s face better. “No, no, you’re really really really really not.”

Aziraphale just looks at him. Eyes flicking between his eyes and his mouth. “Alright, then. Kiss me, Crowley?”

He does, without a second’s hesitation. He dives down to capture his lips with his own and Aziraphale pulls him down closer, hands on his bare back and making it impossible for Crowley to find the wiggle room to unzip his trousers, but then- oh, but then the closeness is good too. Yep, it’s very, very good. And Crowley instinctively grinds his hips, and Aziraphale’s breath catches in his throat.

“Oh- wow- that’s-” the words trip out of the angel’s mouth, brows knitted in surprise.

“That’s,” Crowley agrees. 

There isn’t anything more to say. Crowley grinds against him again, totally fascinated with the feeling and the sound of Aziraphale’s voice drifting beside his ear, fingers tracing down his spine so _gently_. And it’s that that does it- it’s that feeling of his fingers down his back that makes Crowley whine like a dog, bite down on Aziraphale’s shoulder to stop the noise. But failing. And Aziraphale’s hands don’t stop there. They find their way under the waistband of his trousers and roam over the curve of his hips. They grab him by the arse. 

Crowley bites down a little harder, Aziraphale takes a stuttering breath. 

“Don’t hold back on my account, my dear,” Aziraphale whispers. 

Places the gentlest kiss on Crowley’s cheek that turns him to goo. He goes limp, sinuous against Aziraphale’s body.

“I bit you,” he said stupidly. “’M sorry.”

“No, no,” Aziraphale replies. “I strangely rather liked it. Only- if you’re going to bite me, bite me because you want to bite me, not because you’re holding back.”

“Ngk-”

“I want to hear you, Crowley. It’s nice to hear you. Don’t hold back.”

“Fucking Hell, angel,” Crowley murmurs against his shoulder. Rolls his hips, feels Aziraphale’s fingers dig into his skin, feels Aziraphale’s breath beside his ear, feels another moan pour out of him. “Ahhh- You can’t- you can’t- you can’t say things like that, you have no idea-”

“Actually, I think you’ll find that I do,” Aziraphale says.

He can hear the smug bastard’s grin in his voice. 

So he bares down on him again and Aziraphale holds him closer, a hand on the small of his back, a hand in his hair, then hands everywhere so Crowley can’t keep track, and hands pushing clothes away and hands running over his arms and his hips and his shoulder blades, teasing the skin where he wings would be. And Crowley can’t be arsed with the awkwardness of standing up and de-clothing the human way so with a snap of his fingers they’re gone- they’re all gone- and it’s just them. Just them and a feeling of closeness that neither one of them have experienced with anyone before. A feeling of closeness that’s different to any they’ve shared before; they’ve been close in almost every other way. Until now.

The _friction_. The feeling of Aziraphale’s hands instinctively guiding his movements and Crowley straddling him now, a leg on either side of him. The foreign heat that’s built its core just behind his stomach, a heat that’s expanding like a dying sun and making him shiver with warmth. The unfamiliar rightness of being in Aziraphale’s lap. It’s-

It’s—

It’s not what Aziraphale expected at all. It’s not a feeling that’s at all familiar but it’s certainly not bad either. It’s not something he’d ever imagined really, and that makes this all the more experimental; filled with pleasant surprises. Like how soft Crowley’s skin is on the inside of his thighs; how lovely those sounds are that fall from his lips; how sweet and gentle he is like this; how it feels to have this strange, corporeal form of his start to tremble and tingle like he’s touched a live wire. 

Aziraphale lets his fingers trace Crowley’s spine again. He’d liked that. He does it again and he feels Crowley shiver, feels his lips part from Aziraphale’s to make a shaky gasp. And Aziraphale does it again and again because he can, and because his fingers have traced the pages of countless books and countless forks in the Ritz and countless times have fumbled for the buttons of his worn waist-coat, but they’ve never done this. They’ve never felt the warmth of Crowley’s body. 

He’s never felt anything like this. A feeling like he’s starved, a feeling like waking up in the night and feeling desperate for a glass of water, wanting more and chasing for more and not knowing what he’ll find, but feeling the urgency of reaching the end, searching for what comes next. 

Looking up at him now. Oh, looking up at Crowley now, red hair falling in front of his face where it had been swept back so nicely before. Naturally pouting lips parted, pink cheeks. He’s never seen Crowley with pink cheeks before. It’s so strangely innocent compared to the rest of what they’re doing right now. Aziraphale bucking his hips. Shameless. Both of them so shameless it’s _delicious_.

And his hands keep travelling downwards. They wind back down to the small of his back and Aziraphale stretches a little to feel the curve of his thigh to his hip to his arse, grabs him there again because it had felt like the right thing to do the first time, and Crowley had made that whining noise that assured him it _was_ the right thing to do. So he does it again, and Crowley chokes. 

“Yes,” Crowley breathes.

“Yes?”

“Yes, fuck, yes.”

Alright, Aziraphale thinks he knows what he’s getting at, it doesn’t take a genius and quite honestly, he’s tempted to see what happens when—

\-- when--

\--Aziraphale’s fingers are more wily than his, Crowley thinks. He sits up straight in his lap and feels the angel moving inside of him in every way possible; Aziraphale has lived inside of him for so long now, made a home in his heart and mind that this doesn’t feel so unfamiliar, just different. Warm and more teasing and coaxing him towards something he can’t quite see yet. 

And Aziraphale sits up to meet him- his lips reach as far as Crowley’s collarbone, they move along his skin without kissing, just grazing softly, and Crowley’s hands run through the angel’s feather white hair. And-

“Ah fuck-” the words fall out of him quickly, before his brain had had a chance to consciously conjure them. “You’re- there, there- fuck-”

He looks down. Back arched, chin tilted, he looks down and sees Aziraphale watching him like he’s praying, brows pinched and a look of wonder. 

“You’re so beautiful like this, love.”

He squeezes his eyes shut again. If he looks at Aziraphale and hears him say things like that he’ll- he’ll- he doesn’t know, but there’s a tension in his throat and chest like he might cry. 

He doesn’t deserve Aziraphale.

“So beautiful,” the angel repeats in a whisper.

And for a while Aziraphale simply holds him close like this, strokes him with his hands and lips and if Aziraphale had been worried about Crowley holding back before, there’s no need for concern, now- because Crowley’s making noises that don’t sound like him at all, that sound almost like he’s in pain, tortured sobs an moans that are pulled from a part of him that he’s never known before. Aziraphale finding places inside of him that he hasn’t found himself before. 

And eventually, Crowley encourages Aziraphale’s hand away. Gasps for more, begs for him with a tongue running across his bottom lip, dives down to nip at his neck. And he whispers in his ear for _more_\- because he’s greedy, he needs more, he wants and his curiosity will always get the better of him, always- he pants a string of _please_s and—

And—

\--and oh this feeling. An impossible closeness that he’s never felt before, an impossible feeling of being a part of Crowley, inside him and with him and tangled up in him and all this they’d never done before, what fools they’ve been for waiting so long. 

Crowley rocking against him, taking small, slow movements at first, making small, shallow breathes at first. And then that set look of determination on his face that’s so utterly Crowley it makes Aziraphale grin, smile drunkenly and hold him closer. Taste the sweat on his skin. 

This whole sex with Crowley thing is a lot better than sherry on a Spanish porch. 

It’s a lot better, because there’s a lot more to it. There’s something shared, and there’s something raw and desperate and vulnerable in a way he’s never felt before, like the day he was first created. There’s the sound of their heavy breathing and Crowley panting, the sound of the sofa creaking in a way that should be embarrassing but it isn’t. The feel of Crowley’s hand on his shoulder, gripping for support, the sight of his yellow eyes gazing down at him, hazy, mouth hanging open. The crease in his brow when Aziraphale moves just here, or just there, the way his head falls back with a groan. 

And there’s that feeling. That hungry feeling that’s building that he doesn’t recognise but he’s more than willing to let it take over, to let it run through him, a feeling that’s doubling and tripling and growing in heat exponentially, he thinks he might—

\--he thinks—

Crowley thinks he’s never heard anything so miraculous as Aziraphale’s little shocked hiccups as he rocks into his lap. And he doesn’t think he’s ever been so pleasantly surprised as when he looks down now, sees Aziraphale gaze at him with an incredible intensity.

Aziraphale waves his hand messily-

-So they’re suddenly roles reversed. Crowley’s on his back, Aziraphale still between his legs. Crowley’s legs wrapped around his waist. Fingers digging into his back. And now Aziraphale’s the one looking down at him, expression a little bewildered and looking more than a bit undone. Feet pushing against the arm of the sofa. And he moves and Crowley’s hips snap upwards and they both begin to fall apart at the seams.

Crowley cries out in a broken gasp. 

Aziraphale swears. “Oh- _fuck_-”

This feeling like someone’s dropped a match on a trail of oil, this feeling of heat that runs through his body suddenly and makes shiver and every bit of him tensing till he’s desperately catching his breath. It’s wonderful and it's like nothing he’s ever felt before.

Aziraphale falls heavily on top of him, and Crowley holds him there. Eventually shoves him to the side a bit so he can breath a bit letter, but lets Aziraphale rest his head on his chest. Wraps his arms around him and keeps him there. Keeps him close, making up for lost time. 

The rest of the world slowly begins to filter back through into Crowley’s mind. The band music outside and the existence of literally anyone else in the universe. And then there’s Aziraphale’s feathery hair tickling his chin, the cooling sweat on his arm as he strokes his skin- that’s all he’s really interested in. 

“That was,” Aziraphale begins. 

“It certainly was,” Crowley drawls.

A pause. Aziraphale pats him on the chest, and that’s about as articulate as either of them will get on the matter. 

“I can hear your heart,” Aziraphale says in gentle surprise. 

He peers down to view the top of his head. “Yeah?”

“Yes. It’s really hammering away.”

“Good exercise.” Crowley sighs, slowly, through his nose. He stares at the windows, the light pouring through the crack in the old curtains. “Bit love-sick, too.”

There’s a moment where Aziraphale doesn’t move or say anything. But then, he props himself up a bit to look at Crowley with a disbelieving smile. 

“What?” Crowley demands.

“You are _romantic!_”

He closes his eyes. Lets Aziraphale laugh, lets him stroke his cheek affectionately. Crowley leans into the touch. 

“And,” Crowley begins his reply slowly. “If you tell a single soul. I will have to kill you.”

The old room fills with the perfect chimes of Aziraphale’s laughter, and Crowley smiles at him. 

***

Aziraphale lies against the back of the bath, and Crowley leans against his stomach. The bath is too small for the two of them, it’d been too small for one Aziraphale, but they’d both managed, by way of miracle. Aziraphale’s knees poke out of the bubbles, and Crowley’s feet stick out the end, wiggling from side to side contentedly. 

An angel pours a cup of bubbly water of a demon’s head, and the only argument he gets in response is a _pffffbbt_ as he spits it out of his face. 

“Do you really think so, Crowley?” 

“Of course, angel,” he grumbles, wiping water from his face. His copper hair darkened, flattened against his head. “He told me that he’d written Romeo and Juliet based on a real couple.”

“But you and I are nothing like them. For starters, neither of us are teenagers. And neither of us are that silly.”

“We are that dramatic. And we do get into that much trouble.”

“That is true.”

“And besides,” Crowley splashes some bathwater thoughtlessly, and Aziraphale marvels at this whole situation. Crowley leaning against him and having a bath with him, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. It sort of is. “Besides, I can’t think of a single other couple he could’ve been talking about. And it was totally like Shakespeare to do something unhelpful like _hint_ something like that. Rather than coming straight out with it and saying, ‘I think you two should shag it out.’”

Aziraphale tuts. “Shag it out. _Really_.”

“You know he loved to match-make, our Bill.”

“That he did. Nonetheless. I don’t know if I believe it.”

They lie there in relative peace and quiet, the sound of bath water lapping. Crowley’s legs knocking into Aziraphale’s as he fidgets, creating waves. Then:

“Everyone’s hooked up with someone this weekend, haven’t they,” Crowley remarks.

Aziraphale opens his mouth, then closes it. Then sighs. “Apart from Xeno.”

“Hmm. For the best, I think.”

“You know, I was thinking the same,” Aziraphale looks down at Crowley in agreement, though he can’t look back at his angle- his head leaning against Aziraphale’s collarbone. “I was just about to say that I think Xeno deserves someone better than Bing. Well, not necessarily better, but. Just, better suited.”

“He needs someone who likes the way he thinks, rather than puts up with it,” Crowley expands.

“Yes. Exactly.”

They fall into quite again. The music outside has stopped now. The party’s over. Candles flicker in the outhouse bathroom. 

“Love’s a strange thing, isn’t it,” Aziraphale whispers.

Crowley huffs a laugh. Takes Aziraphale’s arm and wraps it around him. “Yeah. Spent six thousand years trying to figure my way around it, and only just got here.”

“We took our time, didn’t we?”

They share a quiet laugh and lie there till the water goes luke-warm. They share a laugh and they share each other’s presence. They share in each other’s comfort and hold one another, because no one else has in all of their long existence. For all that Heaven and Hell have deprived them of what they’ve always wanted, a place to belong, they’ve found it now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd be interested to know whether you guys liked the alternating POV in this chapter! I thought it might make add something, hopefully not confusing.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Fin._
> 
> I am so so unbelievably grateful to everyone who's been reading this as I've been writing. i'm grateful that none of you have harassed me to write the final chapter, as I've been dealing with some really horrible stuff lately. 
> 
> I've enjoyed writing this SO much, I can't even express. I hope this ending is satisfying for you all <3
> 
> Thanks again,  
Liv (come find me on justkeeptrekkin for a chat!)
> 
> **PS if any of you are interested in reading more backstory and appearance descriptions for the OCs, you can find more on [this here tumblr post!](https://justkeeptrekkin.tumblr.com/post/187689747165/celestial-bodies-the-ocs#notes)**

Fitzroy Square is quiet on a Tuesday afternoon. It’s filled with the sound of ladies’ heels and gentlemen’s canes against the pavement. A child disturbs the peace and runs through a crowd of pigeons, sending them flying. Their nanny hurries over and chastises them in a lowered voice. The white facades of the buildings gleam and the distant noise of London traffic and newspaper boys’ yelling fills the air.

Aziraphale walks at a nice leisurely pace beside Crowley. It’s a bright day, even though it’s clouded over, and Crowley tilts the rim of his hat so it casts a larger shadow across his face. 

“He said it was big news,” Aziraphale says.

“Yeah, well. Xeno’s definition of big news could mean anything. Last week he rang me up to tell me he’d found a tie _in the most extraordinary yellow_.”

“Dear old Xeno.”

The child runs through the flock of pigeons on the grass again, and the nanny looks as if she’s about to tear her hair out. A few gentlemen scowl at the display, being in such a well-to-do area of London. The old flower woman with her basket of daisies and roses smiles at the scene. 

“You seen any of them since Devon?” Crowley asks, a restrained smile on his face as the child folds their arms across their chest and pouts. 

“No, actually. We’ve all been frightfully busy. I did run into Jules and Tilly the other day in Covent Garden, and they did both seem well.”

“That’s good, that’s good,” Crowley mutters distantly.

“I’ve been meaning to check in on Bingy and Dodders, what with how they both seemed to sort things out between them. But they’ve been awfully difficult to get hold of, and- Crowley, are you listening?”

He isn’t. Not even a little bit. In fact, he’s started wandering off across to the other side of the road, using his umbrella like a cane. Aziraphale’s immediate reaction is to grumble to himself and roll his eyes. _How rude, _ he thinks to himself. It’s only when he sees Crowley tip his hat in greeting to the flower girl that Aziraphale’s irritation abates. She gestures to the _one flower for three shillings_ sign with a sweet smile. Aziraphale watches Crowley point to a particularly jolly looking daisy. Watches Crowley take it, then conjure up ten shillings and drop them into her upturned palm. She tries to give him two more daisies, he waves his hands in rejection- _keep the change,_ his lips say- and he slopes away again, making his way back to Aziraphale with a daisy in his hand. 

Aziraphale’s face is indescribably warm. He smiles giddily to himself, a smile so wide it hurts his cheeks, a smile so strong it turns into a laugh. He can’t help but stare at Crowley’s hands as they fix the daisy to the lapel of his suit. 

Crowley gives him one of those soft, quiet smiles- a look privately reserved for Aziraphale. He’d go as far to say dreamy. And then, as if Aziraphale has looked at him too long, made him too self-aware, he looks down at the pavement and tuts to himself. 

“Yeah, alright, don’t- no need to give me that soppy smile.”

“You _like_ soppy,” Aziraphale teases, still very much offering said soppy smile, unashamedly. “You, Anthony J. Crowley, are soppier than me by a mile.”

“By a marathon,” Crowley admits very quietly. 

And whilst they don’t link arms, they do walk close enough together that their hands brush. 

Xeno’s flat is flat 29a Fitzroy Square. It is fairly easy to find, and the doorman lets him in with a ‘good morning, sirs’ whilst another escorts them into the elevator. Aziraphale catches sight of the two of them in the elevator’s mirror, is taken aback suddenly by the image. He rarely sees them like this. Or, in fact, at all; there aren’t many photographs of them. And it is rare that two people will stand side by side in front of a mirror for any extended period of time. So he finds himself staring at them; him, in his cream double breasted jacket and tartan tie, a hat much like Crowley’s, although it is cream with a black band. Soft white curls. Soft face. Comically soft and wide-eyed and unthreatening. Then, beside him, the most beautiful being in the entire universe. The most loved being in the entire universe, because he is loved wholly by Aziraphale. Crowley looks so much smarter in a suit, far less- well, soft. Sharp, but no less gentle. And from behind his sunglasses, Aziraphale can tell he’s looking at their reflection, too. Perhaps equally taken aback. 

When the elevator doors open, they find Xeno’s door and knock.

When Xeno’s door opens, Xeno isn’t the one who answers. 

“Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley,” says the valet. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale says in surprise. “Good afternoon. I didn’t know Xeno had a valet.”

“We are in the right place,” Crowley says, voice questioning.

The man before them is tall, a good couple of inches taller than them- in another world, he could be a professional rugby player. He has a fiercely astute look about him that makes Aziraphale feel like he’s being seen, through and through. His blonde hair is slicked back in a perfect wave, and his head is slightly bowed in observance, back straight as a board. 

“Indeed, sirs, Mr. Smith did inform me that you’d be arriving this afternoon for tea. He is waiting for you in the lounge.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says again. Then, more brightly, “Right-ho, then!”

They step into the flat and Aziraphale is almost knocked off his feet by the wave of love that hits him. Crowley senses it too, clearly, because they both recoil for the shortest moment, and Aziraphale holds onto Crowley’s arm for support. It’s quite remarkable; unlike anything he usually senses in an ordinary London apartment. Xeno, of course, is an openly affectionate person, and always has been, and Aziraphale had thought that he’d grown used to his aura- but this is something quite different. 

They follow the valet inside, and Xeno is indeed in the lounge. He’s lying on the floor with his limbs splayed like a starfish. It would be surprising to walk in on, if it weren’t Xeno doing it. 

“Hello, my dear,” Aziraphale says from the doorway. 

Xeno tilts his head up so he can see his new guests. “Aziraphale! Crowley! Hullo, there!”

“Having a nice look at the ceiling, are we?” Crowley notes.

“Sorry? Oh! This? Yes, I’m just lying here because I’m having a new sofa delivered.”

Aziraphale inhales, prepares to respond, but has nothing. He looks at Crowley, who seems equally perplexed, and shrugs. Then:

“Mr. Smith is concerned that the sofa we purchased this morning may be too big for this particular area.” The valet holds out his hands to take their hats, and the two of them hand them over wordlessly- though they do exchange a glance. “I had attempted to assure him that the dimensions of the room are quite ample for what he had chosen, with my assistance, in Selfridges. However I thought perhaps it better to let him ease his anxiety on the matter in whatever way suits him best.”

Aziraphale and Crowley exchange another glance. This one more pregnant with shared thought.

Eventually, Crowley pouts in concession and nods. “Fair enough.”

“Oh!” Xeno sits up quickly, then groans at the head-rush, hand plastered to his forehead. He looks different- it is hard to say how, other than his black hair is less styled, less sternly slicked back. It now bounces with its natural coil. He looks softer, somehow more himself. He continues, groggily. “I invited you over because I have news! You’ll never guess!”

“Is it anything to do with the valet who just let us in that you didn’t have before?” Aziraphale offers helpfully. 

“Yes? But Aziraphale, how did you know?”

Said valet gives them the ghost of a knowing smile, and goes to help Xeno onto his feet. Xeno gestures to the single available sofa, and they take it. Xeno hovers by the window and leans against the wall. 

“Crowley, Aziraphale, this is Evans, my new valet! Isn’t he just marvellous? He’s already helped me find my pocket watch that I lost last year. And he’s managed to stop my mother from setting me up with some frightful girl from Cheltenham.”

Evans bows his head slightly in acknowledgement. 

“How’re you enjoying it, then, Evans,” Crowley says slowly, pointedly from the sofa, leg crossed over one knee. “Being a valet? At old Xeno’s beck and call?”

Those eyes narrow the slightest amount. “I am not at liberty to say, sir.”

“Oh, come now, Evans!” Xeno smiles dreamily. “Do be honest, let go of that feudal attitude, eh? If I’m an absolute beast, I would rather know!” 

Evans looks up at the ceiling, as if silently calling on some deity that has abandoned him. Although, the faint smile on his face is obvious. “I will admit that Mr. Smith is a significantly more considerate employer than that of some of the others whom I have had the… opportunity to care for, sir.”

There’s a pause, a huge beaming smile on Xeno’s face, and the room gets indescribably brighter. In a way that anyone could feel, but only Aziraphale, with his particular angelic senses, can see. It’s blinding. 

_Ah_, Aziraphale thinks. _An interesting development. Good for you, Xeno._

Crowley clears his throat, brows raised. And Xeno snaps out of whatever love-sick reverie he had been in. 

“Oh- yes! It’s been just fabby-docious. And I wanted to wait to tell you all when you came over so you could meet him properly.”

Aziraphale smiles at Evans, who has been quietly rearranging household objects into tidier places and gathered up Xeno’s used teacups. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Aziraphale says.

“A pleasure, sir,” Evans nods, and backs into the kitchen, arms full of teacups. 

Crowley looks at Aziraphale with a barely concealed smile, and Aziraphale looks back, probably looking much the same. 

“How have you two been, then?” Xeno asks cheerily. And Aziraphale really is struck by how much happier he seems. “Oh, and look, what a lovely flower, Aziraphale. Did you buy that from Maggie, outside? She’s a lovely lady, isn’t she?”

That makes his cheeks warm all over again. A bashful smile to himself as he looks down at the flower on his lapel, then at Crowley, who’s leg is bouncing anxiously over the other as he examines his nails like they have something very important to say. 

“Yes. Crowley bought it for me. Lovely, isn’t it?”

“Oh, yes!” Xeno exclaims. “I’m so happy to see you two together. Crowley, you’ll never know how much he spoke about you before, I’ve never seen a man so in love.”

_I think you could give me a run for my money,_ Aziraphale thinks, mind drifting back to the valet in the kitchen. “Stop that, Xeno,” he reprimands gently. “Crowley gets flustered easily.”

“No I don’t,” he snarls. 

“Yes you do, love.”

Crowley growls and folds his arms across his chest. Case in point. 

“You know, I heard the other day what the different flowers mean, but I’ve forgotten what a daisy means,” Xeno says. Crowley tenses. “Evans will know, he knows everything. Evans?”

A pause. Crowley sighs. The door opens. 

“Yes, sir?”

“Evans, what’s a daisy?”

And to any ordinary person who hadn’t been privy to the conversation just now, that question might have been a bit baffling. But Evans seems to understand perfectly, and with a small smile, he replies, “A daisy represents loyalty, innocence, and love in its purest form, sir.”

“Yes, yes, alright, go and tell the whole blessed world, why don’t you?” Crowley bites, staring in the other direction. 

Aziraphale lays a calming hand on one of his folded arms, and Crowley softens, just the smallest amount. 

The doorbell rings, and Evans disappears to go answer it. All the while, Xeno rattles on about flower language, and Crowley silently fumes with embarrassment. Aziraphale smiles serenely at the back of Crowley’s turned head. He takes his hand and squeezes it gently. 

Crowley sighs. Aziraphale swears he does, actually, see steam. 

“What-ho, what-ho!” 

The unmistakable sound of Dodders bounding into the room. He immediately hits his head on Xeno’s lampshade and hisses, otherwise not paying much attention to this mishap, what with being too distracted by Crowley and Aziraphale- the latter of whom stands up to greet his friend.

“Aziraphale!”

“Hello, my dear.”

“Crowley! Oh, you don’t look too happy. What’s got your knickers in a twist, old boy?”

Aziraphale sits back down, Dodders perches on the arm of the sofa, and Crowley glares at Dodders through his sunglasses. Then, dryly:

“What the fuck are you wearing?”

Aziraphale has to admit that it was one of the first things he’d noticed, too. It’s a sweater vest, not unlike any other. Yes, unlike any other, except for the fact that the diamond pattern is coloured in yellow, green and orange. It’s loud enough to make even Aziraphale wince. 

Dodders slumps, looks wretched. “Oh, come now, is it really so bad? I thought it was quite fetching.”

“It’s very…” Aziraphale tries. There must be something nice he can say about it, surely. “It’s certainly eye-catching.”

“You look like you’ve been coloured in by a five year old,” Crowley remarks. 

“I think the colours are quite jaunty!”

“I _love_ it, Dodders,” Xeno says. 

“_Thank_ you.”

“It looks like you’re about to play golf at a children’s party.” 

And that is the dulcet tones of Bingy- who steps into the room looking far more sobre, but nonetheless happy. Cherubic blonde curls bouncing jauntily, a spring in his step. He beholds his partner fondly, if not wearily, and stands behind him. It doesn’t pass Aziraphale by how deliriously content they both seem. “Hello, lads, how are we?”

“Just fine, thank you,” Aziraphale replies easily, “I have tried to get in touch with you, but I daresay you’ve been busy?”

Crowley snorts. Aziraphale nudges him. If that came out rather more suggestive than anyone had expected, then that’s their problem and not his.

Bingy and Dodders share a look. Evans’ pursed smile wavers a little as he disappears into the kitchen. 

Dodders has gone bright red. “Rather,” he mumbles, head ducked.

“Busy doing what?” Xeno asks. “I assumed your telephone had stopped working, old egg, you know how tricky this technology can be-”

“So,” Bingy changes the topic swiftly, though the smile on his face implies that he’s enjoying how bashful Dodders has suddenly become. “So, then. A valet.”

“Quite.”

Xeno perks up immediately. “Isn’t he wonderful?” 

“Oh, yes.”

“Seems nice enough.”

“I can’t say I know him well enough, Xeno old chap, but I’ll believe you.”

“Very happy for you.”

Xeno goes on a long speech about the one time Evans saved him from falling in a pond, or one time he drove away his ghastly cousin, or _the other time_, and _this time when_, and _you’ll never guess what he did last week._ Bingy leans in towards Aziraphale so only he can hear.

“This Evans man. What do you think?”

“I think they’re both entirely dedicated to each other,” he says.

“Is that your polite way of saying that they’re both totally in love with each other?”

“Yes.”

“Righto.”

And that’s the end of that conversation. They quietly listen to Xeno talk and talk and talk- talk more than Aziraphale thinks he’s ever heard him talk, and from the edge of the lounge Evans listens. It’s not immediately obvious, on the surface- the valet is simply dusting Xeno’s bookshelves. But it’s clear to Aziraphale at least- and probably Crowley, who’s somewhat more observant than him- that Evans is listening. He occasionally sees his affectionate gaze dart towards his master, then down at the floor in a look of self-chastisement, then at the bookshelves again as he works. 

The door rings, Evans disappears, and it’s not long before there’s the sound of-

“Hello, boys!” Tilly announces, immediately throwing her arms around Xeno before Evans has had a chance to take off her coat. 

“Hullo, darling,” Xeno mumbles in surprise, face pressed against a faux-fur shoulder. 

"Dodders, what on Earth are you wearing?" she barks. "Are we going golfing later? Should I have brought my clubs?"

"Why does everyone keep _saying_ that? I like this vest..."

Lottie and Jules follow. The room is now significantly busier, and hugs are had all round, including Jules, who doesn’t usually indulge in such a thing. Lottie and Dodders share a big hug, which Aziraphale notes with quiet relief. They seem better friends than ever. Jules takes an arm chair, and Lottie perches daintily on Tilly’s lap, who has taken the one other vacant seat in the room. 

“May I take your coat, Miss Topping?”

Tilly looks up at Evans as if having only just noticed him. Her eyes widen and she stares at Xeno. “Xenophon Smith, you have a valet, you posh bastard, when were you gonna tell me this?”

“Today!” He replies cheerily. “Evans, this is Tilly!”

“Miss Topping,” he nods in greeting.

“How very nice to meet you Evans,” she replies mock-seriously.

Lottie stands up from Tilly’s lap to allow her to shuck off her coat. Jules watches these interactions with interest, hand cradling his chin. 

“Evans?”

“Yes, Miss Swaddle-Swidworth.”

Lottie giggles. “Oh Lord, don’t call me that, please, just call me Lottie.”

“I couldn’t possibly, Miss,” he replies, affronted.

“Oh. Alright, well, I was just wondering how you’re finding it, keeping our Xeno in check? Many mishaps?”

“A few, Miss.”

“He keeping you on your toes, old chap?” Dodders grins. 

“Indubitably, Mr Doddering-Heights.”

“Ah, but you’re the smartest man in the entire world, Evans!” Xeno announces a little dreamily. Crowley raises his brows at Xeno, a restraint smile. “You must get ever so bored, here, sometimes. You must find me so very silly and dull, I don’t know how you put up with me.”

The light-hearted bantering makes way for something else; none of them have ever thought Xeno as dull, though they’re all guilty of thinking him silly every now and then. To hear him say this about himself so openly and unabashedly, without any doubt, puts them all in a guilty silence.

And Evans’ smile falls. Not quite sadly, not quite seriously, but definitely sincerely. “I very much do not, sir.”

“Oh,” Xeno breathes. “Just so, just so. Um. So.” He hesitates. “So. I reckon we’re about ready for a pot of tea, don’t you?”

Evans nods his head. “Very good, sir.”

And he disappears into the kitchen. Everyone has gone very quiet, afraid to break the spell that Xeno is under. Aziraphale still holds onto Crowley’s hand, and Crowley taps his thumb against his knuckle; a quiet acknowledgement that they’re thinking of the same thing. 

They spend the afternoon catching up. None of them have ever been happier. Tilly gazing lovingly at Lottie as she talks enthusiastically about the horse-riding lessons she’s started teaching. Dodders is buzzing with unrestrained joy beside a contented Bing, slicing sponge cake. Xeno, no longer entranced by Bingy, looking blissfully comfortable in himself. A stoic but smiling valet, answering all his eclectic questions without hesitation or judgement. Jules, relieved to at last see all of his friends no longer pining, tucking into a well-deserved (and ginormous) slice of cake; he’s had more romance in his life than he’d ever bargained for, or wanted. Aziraphale, chipping in every now and then and inconspicuously miracling the teapot to stay warm. 

And Crowley. Crowley listening quietly. Crowley making the odd witticism. Crowley laughing raucously with Bing, head thrown back and draped luxuriously in his chair. Crowley, smiling more genuinely than Aziraphale can remember.

***

There is a photograph of them all, outside Crossley Hall in Devon. It is the morning after the party, that party where everything changed for all of them. They are all outside the front door, roses in bloom. They are all smiling for the camera. Aziraphale beaming, truly ecstatic. Crowley expressionless, trying to look suave and nonchalant. His hand is unseen, a support behind Aziraphale’s back. Dodders is open-mouthed, mid-sentence as he says something to the photographer- Thomas, the butler. Bing looks at Dodders with a wincing smile, an almost laugh. Their lives all took unexpected turns at Crossley Hall, and this photo commemorates it. 

Aziraphale has framed it in his bookshop. It remains hidden behind stacks of books on his desk, for only him and Crowley to see. 

Crowley keeps a copy in his wallet, folded up and a little dog-eared, but cherished. 

***

The years that pass are filled with champagne and music. They are filled with some joy. Some grief. Some trepidation, as they step into the beginnings of yet another war. There are more parties than either of them can count. There are sparkling chandeliers and sequined dresses and cigars. There are terrible parents and supportive parents, there are pets and new apartments and there are even group visits to the bookshop. There are more photographs. There are more village fetes. There are more holidays in Devon. There are New Years’ Eves spent drinking and singing and playing piano and charades. 

There are more parties, and more on top of that. There are jazz clubs, and there are performances. Toni continues to sing, Aziraphale goes to watch her every time. There are moments of laughter, moments of misunderstandings, moments of slow dancing in Toni’s dressing room to distant music. 

And as the decades pass, Aziraphale and Crowley move ahead, ageless. They all simply part ways, as friends do, and Aziraphale and Crowley spend some time in the South Downs, wiling away the time until the Apocalypse is due. The years that pass are filled with many things, some that they could never have prepared for. 

They hold each other’s hands throughout it all. 

***

Aziraphale stirs the milk into tea, the clinking of the teaspoon a tuneless descant to Crowley’s piano playing. It is 2019, and the world didn’t end. None of it happened in quite the way anyone expected. 

In the backroom, Crowley sits at the piano and his hands wander over the keyboard. He plays Debussy like it’s something very casual, nothing to make a fuss over. The sound still makes Aziraphale’s heart sing, even after all these years. _Especially_, even- his love builds like layers of snow. 

“Crowley, my love?”

“Mm?” Crowley responds distantly, eyes on the keyboard. The light from the windows overhead, from the mezzanine level of the bookshop, lights him up like a painting of the Virgin Mary. 

“I’ve only put in one sugar. Do you think you’ll cope?”

His snake eyes narrow at Aziraphale, peering at him from over the top of the grand piano. They’ve had it in the bookshop since 1927, and Aziraphale has miracled it so nobody other than them can play it; if anyone were to try, they’d find themselves getting a fairly nasty static shock. 

Crowley grumbles. “Why’re you trying to wean me off sugary tea? Never did anyone any harm.”

“You know why. It’s the principle of it,” Aziraphale argues a little desperately, placing the mug on the table beside the piano. Crowley watches him as he plays. “I’m morally against the idea of mixing sugar with earl grey tea. Milk is quite bad enough. It’s just not right, Crowley.”

“Yeah, well,” Crowley mutters, eyes flitting back down at the piano. “Now that I’ve been sacked, an ex-demon can only do so much. No more fermenting sin. Sugary, milky earl grey tea is about as evil as I get now.”

“It’s about as evil as you’ve ever been,” he replies, voice low and mischievous.

Aziraphale measures Crowley’s response over the rim of his reading glasses. Crowley sticks out a fork tongue and hisses. Aziraphale chuckles. 

“Will you show me how to play _Claire de Lune_ today, dear?”

“Er. I could, or we could practice that duet.”

“You said last decade that I’d be ready for _Claire de Lune_”

“Ah. Yes, _but_,” Crowley gives him a reprimanding, pointed finger. “That’s because you were meant to have practised. You haven’t been practising.”

Aziraphale coyly smiles to himself. “Yes, sir. Promise I’ll do better, sir,” he says with a cheeky little wiggle, just to make Crowley flustered.

It has the desired effect. His ears go red. “_Stop it_,” he growls.

He takes his seat beside Crowley, and they begin to play. Chopin’s Berceuse in D Flat, Op.57. Aziraphale plays the left hand. It’s not strictly a duet, but they like to play it together nonetheless; they like the way the one hand supports the other, they like the way the notes flutter together like fireflies on the surface of a river. They like the way the sound says more than their words ever possibly could, more than any of the words in this bookshop could. They like they way, sometimes, they’ll switch around and play the other’s part. 

They like the way that, from the piano stool, they can see the photograph of their friends- a picture from 1923, when they were a little more naive, a little more frightened for the future, and completely unprepared for how wonderful it would be. They like how it makes the bookshop, bathed in evening light, sing with music and love. 

An angel and a demon play a duet in Soho, and a nightingale sings in Berkeley Square.

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi to me on tumblr- i'm justkeeptrekkin :)


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